(THIS ARTICLE IS MACHINE TRANSLATED by Google from Norwegian)
It crackles and crackles in the ear of the general
the secretary
he wakes up dazed and lost after a disturbing dream
and shaves carefully and tightens the grip on himself
like a thoughtful tie knot
and eat an egg in EU format
brown cheese on the table
herring in tomato and Norwegian crispbread
bends over the laptop
scroll VG, TheGuardian. com, NTB, DN and DB
and the currency calculator for fun
and sends a nice message to the prime ministers
in Norway, Denmark and Sweden and remember to congratulate
the monarch with the birthday
and ties his one shiny black shoe
he ties the other
a stabbing pain in the lower back
it is D-day it is B-day
it is the terminology of the military
industry
he must maintain with diplomatic finesse
it is the helicopter pilot he must thank
for the mission
and it is the white helmet he is to appear in
and the photographers he will turn his attention to
so that his boyish charm is noticeable
and it is the rotors he hears as if they came from a tunnel
as if the rotors are rotating up forgotten things
shots and killings and broken promises
Libya and Afghanistan in ruins
death and depravity
and he will look for excuses
democratic verbs
and contradictions must at all costs
be rhetorically possible and
it clicks like monkey screams
in the inbox on your mobile
is it Samsung Galaxy S22 Ultra 5G or iPhone 13
and from the back seat of the bulletproof Mercedes
through soot windows
he looks thoughtless and empty
an elderly woman with a yellow umbrella
walking slowly across the aisle
and her transparent shopping bag of everyday
purchasing makes him think – well, what was that now?
and he takes his beeping mobile
answers his secretary says calmly: I'm on my way – be ready!
He is restless on the heated leather seat
and the central nervous system almost glows off
heated energy
and he puts a chewing gum between his lips
the air feels cool it smells of a distant fire
or is it the war
and he draws the air deep into his lungs
where he takes the stairs to the NATO
building
which was Valhall itself
light on toe
and he greets the prepared and the unprepared
and places the office at the disposal of the Minister of Foreign Affairs
there are activities high and low
which demonstrates well-thought-out preparedness
they should all be in the basement
and the Secretary-General in his bomb room
there are dry biscuits and white wine for him and her
and he expects phone calls from the highest level
holds your breath exhaling
to hear his only one heartbeat
and what does he have in his pockets he thinks distracted
and the cell phone vibrates warmly as a consolation against the thigh
or is it from the inside pocket of the suit jacket
and where did he buy that suit?
bought it myself
is it the wife is it the secretary
does it matter
there is war in Europe
there are abstract boundaries in the airspace
of moving atoms
there are nuclear reactors and fire on the outskirts of everything
and pale women and dumb children with pink backpacks
stuffed animals and Grand piano
and the Secretary-General
reads expressionlessly over and over again a printed manuscript
it is a speech to the ministers
he processes the language
so it can turn off all lights
so that darkness can descend
over the burning Ukraine
and the Secretary-General sits
in his corner sofa in the protected
privileged residential zone on the outskirts of Brussels
has thrown the suit jacket enjoying a glass of red wine
while zapping through the news channels
and studies himself as Secretary General of NATO
while Europe is on the alert for military
industry
economy
thinks the economist in him
it should be in balance, he thinks
and he is fairly satisfied
and can take a well-deserved good night's sleep
stretched out on a reindeer-washed sheet
delivered from the Chinese laundry
and as during the day
as usual has been delivered via the back door
well protected by bulletproof guards
and a dog does in the distance
and the Secretary-General ends the day
as a calculation
where everything goes up
and puts
two red lines below its
ego
