The White Knight On Lilla Strömgatan III
When quiet enters the chest,
memory opens –
a narrow, consecrated aisle
across the iron plain of time
Behold –
Sune and Camilla approach again:
He, in blinding white,
black hair aflame against his brow,
eyes lit as if by prophecy;
She, quick as a blade drawn in moonlight,
language in her grasp like a living beast,
her gaze a furnace of discernment
Season after season,
their entry repeated –
an ancient rite enacted in modern streets.
On winter nights – Handel, Tchaikovsky —
and the room held its breath,
awed and uneasy
before the terrible beauty of fulfilled youth
Then return:
their dwelling claimed,
two cats like watchful spirits,
the air trembling
with the high voltage of genius untempered
Thus the tale bent toward doom:
castle to ruin,
radiance to hunger,
love to a cry in the night.
For the Princess departed,
and the Knight remained –
alone within failing walls,
beneath the cold weight of destiny,
where brilliance becomes burden
and memory its final temple
Poetry by Ingvar Loco Nordin
Written on 2025-11-02 at 14:58
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