Texte: Eider Duck (EN)

The Eider Duck

The eider-duck dwells in the northern land,

Is reared off the fjord's black, gloomy strand,

It plucks the fine, delicate down from its breast

And fashions a warm and a cosy nest.

                

There it will hatch out the young it's to rear,

The shore full of smiles in its summer gear.

But the local fisherman, mischief bound,

Steals up to the reef without a sound.                

               

For him the bird is a valued guest;

He plunders the very last scrap from the nest,

Before he abandons the reef he's stripped

He sees the last feather is safely shipped.

                

But deep in its bosom the bird can find

A spark of sheer love that is warm and kind,

It plucks the fine, delicate down from its breast

And fashions once more a cosy nest.

                

And though that is plundered, yet it will look

To build a new nest in some hidden nook, 

It plucks from its breast the last feather in vain,

Not knowing the fisherman's near again.

                

But should he steal the last treasure left,

The eider despairs, of all hope bereft,

With nought but a bleeding breast to boast,

It pines away on that barren coast.

                

It's not so wealthy, the human breast!

It too will fashion a cosy nest, 

Will line it with care and make pretty its floor

With blooms from the soul's most intimate store.

                

Yet plundered but once in its secretive site,

Its soul is enshrouded in endless night,

Its energies fail and its confident zest,

It's left with no more than a bleeding breast.

                                                            Brynjolf Bjarme