The swallow knows not of death,
only its approach—its scent,
its looming handshake.
Clever, it heeds the signs,
takes off in a hurry
toward a destination
of no importance.
It knows: as long as it flies
quickly
toward elsewhere,
all will be well.
The salmon, blind to signs,
misses the holding hands
before claws unsheathe.
It overlooks your wings
unfurling,
the job offer
in another city.
Deaf to our fights,
it doesn’t hear my words
that made you ebb—
before the wave
that crashed
and erased you.
But in this world
where all that is
was made to wash away
from all that is me, when
the swallow escapes,
soaring above—
the salmon resists,
swimming alongside.
Written by Ossian Houltzén
Ossian Houltzén is a Laz-Swedish student currently living in Sweden. Find him partially inactive @ossianhz on Twitter.