Olof Andersson's Rune
I, Olof Erik Andersson,
Cut my name in this blank sand-stone
And set it in the house’s root
Deep in the wall by the chimney-foot.
Back of the stone in a jam-jar
I roll my song, for no one’s ear
Except my own while I survive —
And that’s not long, as I believe.
Vi har oss själva, annars ingenting.
This is my story, I tell it plain
As I’ll not pass by here again:
We came from the lake, the tracks rough,
The horses dying — camped at a bluff
By the big river, and then at last
We shot the horses, ate them, paced
A hundred miles to build our house
Against this hill smoothed by the ice.
My wife — eight years she shared my pillow —
Was quick, merry, thin as a willow.
I hated my sons and, as they went,
Laughed at their backs and never spent
One thought on them, nor they on me —
Gold-lovers, crooks, their fingers sly.
My daughter first, and then my wife
— I cut their marks with this very knife —
Died early. Thirty years alone,
But happy enough as I chip my stone.
The crickets are loud tonight as they sing:
Vi har oss själva, annars ingenting.
When any man dig out this song
I shall be neither right nor wrong;
I shall be dead, my bones among —
I, Olof Erik Andersson,
Son of my father, father to none.