Listening to the sounds of his country,
Once more on the radio.
Tears swell over bloodshot eyes,
At a voice of his ilk, his time, his stripes.
One that heard the young and the old,
Offered itself as a stage
For an autistic youngster to sing.
The forgotten rhythms of an old way of talking
Charm the heart of a foreigner
Weary of too many me's.
A ditty rings out the golden hour,
Bittersweet as the picture of a gramophone with its shell-like horn
On white linen where a wasp devours a strawberry's flesh.
On watching an old Swede listening to one of the better programs on "Sommar," Sweden's favorite summer radio program.