trampe videre inn i neste morgen

I shot an eagle once, 
And looked at the gorgeous corpse, ruffled the plumes
And saw the lice under them: we the white lice
On this eagle world. I don't make a good louse, 
I lack contentment. 
One ought to be satisfied with the warm grease 
Under the stormy feathers flying through thunder;
Shut eyes and suck.