Outside the wind has died down Poem by Klaus Rifbjerg

The day I'm most afraid of is when simple things become meaningless. I'll know it has happened when the fanfare in ‘The food's on the table' can no longer be taken in. I'll know when the coolness of the serviette against the lips at ‘Enjoy your meal' no longer makes any impression and feels like a kiss that it's all over. We sit down at the table, and everything is as always. We break bread, pour out wine and water. Speak subduedly, outside the wind has died down. I get up, and we both take things out. We wash up. We put the things back in their places and sweep up the crumbs on the table. The vase with flowers now stands where it stood. We read. Soon bed will be waiting and the long night ahead. I turn out the lights and check that the door is locked. In the night I wake up and can hear the wind, place my hand on your hair and listen to your breathing. Fall asleep again, dream, wake up. It is morning.
Translated by John Irons