by Anne H. Bakke
It’s that bitter taste
it comes and goes like the seasons; the sun and the moon; the rain and the sky; the wind and the stillness.
It’s windy out here,
in the cold
in the open
Does it ever stop
you answer, when you are dead. You tell me.
But why does it have to hurt, I ask you again.
No, it doesn’t always hurt, I tell myself.
Anne H. Bakke is from Norway, and currently studying European studies at the Norwegian University of Science and Technology.