Men in overalls the same color as earth rise from a ditch. <br />It's a transitional place, in stalemate, neither country nor city. <br />Construction cranes on the horizon want to take the big leap, <br /> but the clocks are against it. <br />Concrete piping scattered around laps at the light with cold tongues. <br />Auto-body shops occupy old barns. <br />Stones throw shadows as sharp as objects on the moon surface. <br />And these sites keep on getting bigger <br />like the land bought with Judas' silver: 'a potter's field for <br /> burying strangers.' <br /> <br /> <br />translated by Robert Bly<br /><br />Tomas Tranströmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/outskirts/
