Kari Bremnes

Once I had a lover in Berlin,
Said a frail old woman from a table next to mine.
His voice was like an ancient violin
And he spoke to me - that voice ... that voice!
I believe they call it falling for a man,
But this falling made me fly, left me soaring for the sky.
There wasn't any sense, there was no plan,
But who would trade this passion for the safety of dry land?
Not I.
Not he.

And we knew we had to travel far away,
We knew we had to disappear, where no one else could find us.
A sailing ship would take us from the bay.
Its sails would fill with an offshore wind to blind us.
We gambled our security - the future for the now,
Sailed off toward the storm, safety cast aside.
We'd gone beyond what reason would allow,
But who could tame the tidal wave and tell it where to go?
Not I.
Not you.

Reality then brought it to an end,
Said the frail old woman, shaking underneath her hat.
A decent set of values is no friend.
It's reason now that blinds us, please believe!
And passion is not willing to be steered.
Purity alone won't fill a ship's wide sails.
Life will sometimes bring what we most feared,
And who could ever say when to go or when to stay?
Not you.
Not we.

See the seagulls sitting by the waterfront,
Like sculptures made of stone,
Watching summer good times fly away
And leave the seagulls all alone.
Birds are like words:
Suddenly away.
Birds are like words:
Some of them will stay.

See the empty seat beneath me
Thinking of the days I spent with you.
Memories of what we said are circling in my mind
And make me blue.
Words are like birds:
Suddenly away.
Words are like birds:
Some of them will stay.

I carried that dream as a girl,
Dreaming by a fjord so deep,
That my destiny called
From the coastal ship far out at sea.

Always at evening,
That's when that ship called out to me,
Saying she heads north
As I ran to the harbour to see.

A feast coming in,
An Arabian night with a taste of salt,
Fond good-byes and Good Lord! There you are!
These boxes with cats, these eggs that must not be broken,
These sailors' cries and rope thrown down
On the dock for tying,
Seeing the world itself arriving.

Made of steel and fairytales.
What a sight!
The Captain's black uniform with stripes gold and bright.
Happiness coming in.
Happiness coming through the dark.

Day is the veil that you can't pull aside like a curtain
Sewn from a black cloth - a cloth that no-one can see.
No-one can take it away and you know this for certain.
No-one can help you, you might as well let the cloth be.
You no longer are able to see, you no longer have foresight.
And you can't part the curtain, there's no way to know what's in store.
You're stranded in time, a ghost that is lost in the twilight.
And the curtain is woven from the memories of time gone before.

Day is blank paper, but paper you never can write on,
Unlike the letters I hold that you sent to me.
But the words that you've written are buried speaking to no-one,
And words that have lost all their soul should never be.
You knew from the first touch this way was a pathway to danger.
You didn't take time to close all the doors and the gate.
Feelings can bring you so near and then leave you a stranger,
And things are not what they appear but find you too late.

Day is the thief that you don't have the courage to track down,
Who forces himself into all of the rooms of your home.
He comes to your garden, your secrets - he's quiet! Makes no sound.
He steals all the answers and leaves all the questions alone.
And you know there'll be days, just like the ones that you once knew.
And you know that love is really a question of thirst.
And you know that one day there will by a new power within you.
But you dread all the days in between that will seek you out first.

I saw that she was rather young.
She was standing at the counter of a dusty old arcade.
She must have weighed at least 200 pounds,
But everything she sold was slim and finely made.
I'd seen nothing so enchanting for so long.
This was Montreal, I was hiding from the rain.
She wore black fingernails and went right into a song,
As she slowly came to me with this refrain:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She chain-smoked as she handled dark velour.
These hand-made things she showed me in her dramatic fashion.
She saw for me these clothes held an allure,
The moire and silk seemed to stir my passion.
It was Dior, it was Chanel, a certain cut, a seamless seam.
The black-nailed girl could clearly see my weakness.
A weakness fed by a strange and sensuous dream.
With a joyless laugh she said those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She showed me last a handbag made of velvet.
In it were expensive stones like amethyst and jade.
Black sapphires had been shaped just like a rose.
For the funeral of a lover her mother had them made.
It probably was Paris where he died, is what she said,
As this big forgotten daughter glanced towards the window.
I'll sell the sapphires cheap, the man's long dead!
With a vacant laugh she gave those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

We should have begun again.
If we knew then what we know now.
Should have known what really counts
And what was unimportant, somehow.
Should have ventured cautiously,
Not quickly, so abrupt,
Closed our eyes, count to ten.
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

We should have begun again.
Should have learned each other's
Different ways of seeing.
Should have known that heart and soul
Will have their way above our own well-being.
We should have been more giving,
But the lessons pass too soon.
Turn to Buddha, turn to Zen.
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

We should have begun again.
Should have played a little more before life caught us.
Should have known about the pain
To enjoy the wealth of gifts that life had brought us.
To search for something to believe in.
What's a dead end, what's a door?
When to fight, when to make amends?
We should have begun again.

Being together so quiet and still.
Being who we are, so fulfilled.
Not talking, not laughing, not crying.
A riddle beside another riddle.

You approach the town quite slowly from the water
As the dawn arrives and bids the night farewell.
You will feel the cold and hunger in your spirit
As you see the church tower mirrored in the swell.
You will sail around the cliff and watch the sun rise
Shining light upon the high and sleepy hill,
As the town awakes, washed in light and shadow
While the other towns still sleep so dark and still.

You will stand onboard and watch them throw the tow line.
You can see the men who catch it on the pier.
And you feel a chill as you leave the railing.
On down the bridge-way, the town is very near.
You might hear the hammers pounding in the shipyard
Or watch the boats leave toward the fishing ground.
Will they discover if it's worth this early journey,
To rise up before the other sleeping towns?

You must wave farewell to those who've stayed onboard now
Be on your voyage. There are secrets you must know
In this town that knew you once and held you closely,
That owned your morning hours so long ago.
You approach the town quite slowly from the water.
You're a stranger, somehow, as you walk ashore
In this town that hides old images and stories.
Maybe new songs that you will soon explore.

We'd been walking so far,
Where the houses lean together,
On cobblestones not made for my high heels.
As we drifted along,
Slowed down by the weather,
No need to talk
About the way that summer feels.

We went into a doorway
To a run-down bar beneath the ground,
To a place that the sun has never been.

Coming in from the day
To the darkness and the shadows,
The feeble lights could not dispel the gloom.
Slowly making our way,
We found an empty table.
The winter seemed to live inside this room.

This Copenhagen cavern:
A run-down bar beneath the ground,
A place that the sun has never seen.

Like a frail figurine,
She walked between the tables
With a vacant look and thinly braided hair.
She was all of sixteen,
Straight from a Dickens fable,
She was pleading for some money
For her fare.

The Copenhagen waiter
Wanted her back on the street,
But some impulse
Made us offer her a chair.

As I started to speak
I sensed a strong emotion.
She said I am from northern Norway, too,
She had come for a week,
A journey with her school friends
But a year had passed her by
Before she knew.

She said: I come from Senja,
A village on the outer coast,
But the climate here
Affected me much more.

Walking into the lane,
Looking back in through the window,
The light of day now seemed a little strange.
Would she leave for the train,
Would she stay another winter?
She moved betweeen the tables
Begging chance.

We'd been walking so far
Through cobblestone back alleys
No need to talk about
The way that summer feels.

I would like to give you a song.
Not the one that goes you must never leave me baby
And I hate to see you go.
Not the one with a refrain
About your loving arms again,
So I'll celebrate your beauty.
But the words are hard to find.
They've been used a hundred times
And somehow don't belong.
Still I would like to give you a song.

I would like to give you a song.
Not the kind baby you must take me to the sea,
I know where the ocean lies.
I don't want to tell you that my heart belongs to Daddy,
It is you who are my prize.
Maybe I should sing of how your love thrills me here and now.
That you are, when you are there, the way you are.
But the cliches have their way.
Everything I try to say seems wrong.
Still I would like to give you a song.

Down where wave on rock is breaking,
Melodies are blending
Everything from summer song
To symphonies contending.
The jagged rocks must fall away,
All broken into sand,
But also there are smaller stones
To cradle in your hand.

Down where wave on rock is breaking,
The earth in constant motion
On the shoreline's narrow strip
The ever-flowing ocean.
We can always find our way,
If we understand
The constant tide of battle rage
Between the sea and land.

Down where wave on rock is breaking,
In the slanting moolight,
Sails that shine like silver
Moving through the quiet midnight.
Never-ending ebb and flow
With new tales being spun.
The music between sea and stone
And moon and stars and sun.

See the seagulls sitting by the waterfront,
Like sculptures made of stone,
Watching summer good times fly away
And leave the seagulls all alone.
Birds are like words:
Suddenly away.
Birds are like words:
Some of them will stay.

See the empty seat beneath me
Thinking of the days I spent with you.
Memories of what we said are circling in my mind
And make me blue.
Words are like birds:
Suddenly away.
Words are like birds:
Some of them will stay.

I saw that she was rather young.
She was standing at the counter of a dusty old arcade.
She must have weighed at least 200 pounds,
But everything she sold was slim and finely made.
I'd seen nothing so enchanting for so long.
This was Montreal, I was hiding from the rain.
She wore black fingernails and went right into a song,
As she slowly came to me with this refrain:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She chain-smoked as she handled dark velour.
These hand-made things she showed me in her dramatic fashion.
She saw for me these clothes held an allure,
The moire and silk seemed to stir my passion.
It was Dior, it was Chanel, a certain cut, a seamless seam.
The black-nailed girl could clearly see my weakness.
A weakness fed by a strange and sensuous dream.
With a joyless laugh she said those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.

She showed me last a handbag made of velvet.
In it were expensive stones like amethyst and jade.
Black sapphires had been shaped just like a rose.
For the funeral of a lover her mother had them made.
It probably was Paris where he died, is what she said,
As this big forgotten daughter glanced towards the window.
I'll sell the sapphires cheap, the man's long dead!
With a vacant laugh she gave those lines again:

I'm selling all my mother's clothes:
Her lingerie, her skirts and coats.
Her beauty was as pure as this affair is sordid.
I'm selling all my mother's clothes,
And, yes, I find it morbid.