![\"Hyben](\"http:\/\/commons.wikimedia.org\/wiki\/File:Rose_hips.jpg\")
<\/a>Hyben \u2013 rose hips<\/p><\/div> Septembers himmel er s\u00e5 bl\u00e5, Den unge rug af mulden gror Der er en s\u00f8ndagsstille ro Hver stubbet mark, vi stirrer p\u00e5, De r\u00f8de \u00e6bler l\u00f8sner let At flyve som et for\u00e5rsfr\u00f8 <\/p>\n (Otto Mortensen 1949 – Alex Garff 1949)<\/p>\n
\nWhenever you catch a tog<\/strong>\u00a0(train) or bus\u00a0<\/strong>in Denmark, you are sure to encounter a number of people with white Apple earbuds in their ears, relaxing to much of the same r\u2019n\u2019b and pop music as the rest of the (Western) world. However, the Danes have a very rich song tradition themselves. While the classic vise\/r<\/strong>\u00a0([folk] song\/s) and sang\/e<\/strong>\u00a0(song\/s) may not be the most invigorating iPod fodder in a jammed InterCity train, the singalong music is very much alive in other settings. At\u00a0bryllup\/per<\/strong>\u00a0(wedding\/s),\u00a0firmafest\/er<\/strong>\u00a0(\u201dcorporational parties\u201d) and \u2013 you name it \u2013 Danes love to make their voices heard in a song or two. Singing together is, I feel, something quintessentially Danish\u2026 A lot of the good ole tunes can be quite solemn and a bit sad \u2013 after all, they were penned well before e-mailing and Facebook came along to make people feel connected and happy. And let\u2019s face it: Denmark isn\u2019t Spain or France. Why not embrace a bit of Danish melancholia? There\u2019s beauty in that, too.
\nI\u2019d like to share Septembers himmel er s\u00e5 bl\u00e5<\/em>\u00a0\u2013 \u201dSemptember\u2019s sky is so blue\u201d \u2013 with you. It matches the current season perfectly:<\/p>\n
\nThe sky of September is so blue,<\/em>
\n<\/em>dens skyer lyser hvide,
\nits clouds are gleaming white,<\/em>
\nog lydt vi h\u00f8rer l\u00e6rken sl\u00e5
\nand loudly we hear the larch warbling<\/em>
\nsom f\u00f8r ved for\u00e5rstide.
\nlike earlier in spring.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nThe young rye grows from the soil,<\/em>
\nmed gr\u00f8nne lyse klinger,
\nwith green, bright blades<\/em>,
\nmen storken l\u00e6ngst af lande for
\nbut the stork went farthest from the land<\/em>
\nmed sol p\u00e5 sine vinger.
\nwith sun on his wings.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nThere is peace like on a silent Sunday<\/em>
\nimellem tr\u00e6’r og tage,
\namong the trees and roofs,<\/em>
\nen munter gl\u00e6de ved at gro,
\na quiet joy of growing,<\/em>
\nsom var det sommerdage.
\nas were it summerdays.<\/em>
\nOg koen rusker i sit gr\u00e6s
\nand the cow tugs at her grass<\/em>
\nmed saften om sin mule,
\nwith juice around her muzzle,<\/em>
\nmens bonden k\u00f8rer hjem med l\u00e6s
\nwhile the farmer\u2019s driving home with loads<\/em>
\nder lyser solskinsgule.
\nshining yellow like sunlight.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nEach field of stumps we\u2019re glancing at<\/em>
\nst\u00e5r brun og gul og gylden,
\nstands brown and yellow and golden,<\/em>
\nog r\u00f8n st\u00e5r r\u00f8d og sl\u00e5en bl\u00e5,
\nand the rowan stands red and the sloe blue,<\/em>
\nog purpursort st\u00e5r hylden.
\nand purply black stands the elder.<\/em>
\nOg georginer spraglet gror
\nAnd dahlias grow multicoloured-ly<\/em>
\nblandt asters i vor have,
\namong the asters of our garden,<\/em>
\ns\u00e5 rig er \u00e5rets sidste flor:
\nso rich is the year\u2019s last blossom:<\/em>
\noktobers offergave.
\nOctober\u2019s sacrifice.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nThe red apples loosen easily<\/em>
\nfra tr\u00e6ets tr\u00e6tte kviste,
\nfrom the tree\u2019s tired twigs,<\/em>
\nSnart lysner kronens bladenet,
\nSoon the crown\u2019s foliage will brighten,<\/em>
\nog hvert et l\u00f8v m\u00e5 briste.
\nand each leaf must burst.<\/em>
\nN\u00e5r aftensolen p\u00e5 sin flugt
\nWhen the evening sun in its flight<\/em>
\nbag sorte grene svinder,
\nvanishes behind black branches,<\/em>
\nom \u00e5rets sidste r\u00f8de frugt
\nof the year\u2019s last red fruit<\/em>
\nden tungt og mildt os minder.
\nit reminds us, heavily and mildly.<\/em><\/p>\n
\nFlying like a springseed<\/em>
\nfor sommerblomst at blive
\nin order to become a summer flower<\/em>
\ner kun at visne for at d\u00f8,
\nis just withering in order to die<\/em>
\nkan ingen frugt du give.
\nif you can\u2019t give any fruit.<\/em>
\nHvis modenhedens milde magt
\nIf you learnt the mild power of maturity<\/em>
\naf livet selv du l\u00e6rte,
\nfrom life itself,<\/em>
\nda sl\u00e5r bag falmet rosendragt
\nthen behind a faded rose dress<\/em>
\ndit r\u00f8de hybenhjerte.
\nyour red rose hip heart is beating.<\/em><\/p>\n