Hoarfrost in March
There are morningsjust beforesun has conquered the mistwhen hoarfrost stillcan stick to the twigs. When the soundof your skisis the only answerto night’s remaining silence,when nothing has been saidon whereor […]
Author Archives: Björn Rudberg (brudberg)
Police Man on a White Horse
At dawnthe pale horseman arrivesin silencethrough the fieldsdragging in its shadowdemons and brutes, and as deathit smotherswith sickness and swordthe morning mirthof bedrooms and kitchens, and In its wakecorpses are […]
The cold moon’s tale
Underneath —were earthworms windaround the bonesof decomposing bodiesone skeletal fingerremains accusingpointing skywards. A declaring digitgiving evidence againstthe assassin witha spadefor digging graves. But will the cold moonever tell the taleon […]
To be measured?
My love can not be measuredin the bloom of roses red orin the sweetness of a summer cherry,but as an artichoke in autumn. My love is not as a breeze […]
Faithfully
As soon as I told my first lie, I could never go back. I had to cover up my stories with layers of deceit. Contradictions had to be covered with […]
Björn Rudbergs writings 