As you approach Brunaesberget, turn left,
find a cave formed by nature in the mountain,
resembling a dwelling, made all out of stone.
The front is open, narrower, lower than within,
which is so lofty you cannot reach the roof.
The entrance is concealed, guarded on the outside
by two large trees, a fir and a birch, while the descent
lies hard and steep. On the floor, you find rocks,
burnt stumps, and the neighboring people inform
you that, for two years, a man—sage or criminal?
—concealed himself in this cavern. You linger awhile
for moss on stone, for fungus textured like sponge,
and something else entirely undiscoverable.
Everywhere near the road, glittering in the sun,
lies spar full of talc or fine Muscovy glass. Stones
are piled on stones. Are you outside or in? You cannot
be certain. Not everything the light touches can be seen.