Longing for Home

Hours before yet again facing the final few battles, I am trying to take a step away from the situation and detatch myself emotionally from this essentially inane thing that is labelled sport. I wonder why these emotional bonds you have for a team are seemingly as strong as or even stonger than bonds you have forged with friends or even family - especially as there is very little feedback/return from your object of affection.

This irrational feeling is a constant. It is transcending class and personal preferences/opinions and it bonds people together from all different walks of life. It seems as if it is as strong as the connection you have to the place you call home, the place where you feel you have your roots. Then it strikes me, it's not a deliberate choice you have made, this connection is there whether you like it or not. Some people just decide not to tap into this as much as others. So our opponents are in fact our brothers, we share more than we care to admit. This is why they deserve our respect and admiration. That we put ourselves in a position where the majority will be left unhappy is just the way we have chosen to live - I for one am used to the constant suffering, possibly even addicted to it by now.

In all this, I recall a poem by Dan Andersson, (aptly from my home town) sadly enough I can't seem to find a translation. That he was killed by those pesky people in Stockholm I hope is in no way  an omen of what is  about to begin... For those of you who prefer music than poetry; this is definitely a blues track that is shouting out for someone to sing it!

   
   Jag är trött, jag är led på fabriken,
   jag vill hem till jordhöljt bo,
   till min koja vid Blodstensmyren,
   i de gröna gömmenas ro.
   Jag vill leva på bröd och vatten,
   om jag endast strax får byta
   allt gasljus och larm mot natten
   där timmarna tysta flyta.

   Jag vill hem till dalen vid Pajso,
   till det gräsiga kärret vid So,
   där skogarna murgrönsmörka
   stå i ring kring mossig mo,
   där starrgräs i ånga växer
   vid källor som aldrig sina
   och där växter väva i jorden
   sina rötter silkesfina.

   Jag vill hem till dalen vid Kango
   där ljungen står brinnande röd
   som ett trots i flammande lågor
   framför höstens hotande död -
   där fjärilar, färggrant glada
   på mjöliga vingar sväva
   och tunga, sjungande humlor
   i den svällande myllan gräva.

   Jag vill hem till det fattiga folket
   som svettas i somrarnas glöd,
   som vakar i bittra nätter
   i envig mot köld och nöd. -
   Jag vill dit där molnen gå tunga
   under skyn där stjärnor skina,
   och där obygdsforsarna sjunga
   i takt med visorna mina.

                               Hemlängtan, Dan Andersson