Wilder still

My mind travelled faster than the shakings of the train could keep up with. I had derailed seven times before the first stop. One catastrophe after another. I even touched base with the old classic: total annihilation by nuclear explosions. Atoms exploding. It was because of that amazing Swedish poet and that amazing Swedish singer and that amazing Swedish composer. How could all these people and their creations have passed me by while growing up only to flank me one drunken evening in the uk. I was working on a digital illustration when it made its way to me. I listened to the opera first. Understood little, but the despair cut clean through every fiber of the wires, soundwaves smacking me awake. I was flabagastered. The first lines, even in my semi-drunken state I couldn't have missed it. Even in my finest of smashed hammered shitfaced state I couldn't have missed it.
I'll give it my best shot translating, though I doubt I can do it justice:
"Someone said that the shadow below the trees, more and more as the frost came turned white. As if its green grass was the summers hair, that hastily aged and froze to ice. And I stood quiet and cold there in the dark and heard only all that was precious to me disappear in a dark and icy wind. And the summer soon laid dead in the land of Rind."
This text and around 90 other poems was written by a man with bleeding heart. During a sentimental moment with his wife watching burning pieces of a comet soaring trough the atmosphere he felt and witnessed with his inner eye the extinction of living organisms as we know them. Watching the sky fall apart above them he was overtook by a strong sensation of connection. Not only to his wife by the touch of her hand or the direct environment by the clear cool air of a quiet night, but to the pieces of comet burning through the atmosphere, to the souls of thousands, millions of eyes watching the sky through the darkness. To him it had the aura of an omen. A beautiful terrifying aura vibrating and cascading, hypnotising. This impending doom he saw was set on course by no other than ourselves and shattered his delicate poet soul. All he could do in the years to come was bleed and bleed. The poems collectively told the story of humans evacuating earth. Their home now made inhabitable, poisoned, murdered by a single push of a button. A fleet is sent out millions of people travelling to reach safety on mars, colonizing and make it for a new beginning. Another try to make it right. One of the ships collides with a meteor. The vessel stays intact, but they get flinged far and irrevocably out of course. Lost adrift in space. No hope.
The ship was a metaphor. When discussing the meaning of the poems he spoke heartfelt about 'Spaceship Earth'. My heart slowly broke with his. He was years ahead of me, his pieces had already spread widely through out the universe. I could see he was still in deep pain. As my heart is younger the pain is wilder and more condensed. In time my heart will have grown We are drifting in space, circling a dying star, our minds alike circling being pulled the gravity of a black hole created by greed selfishness apathy pride. We keep circling around it, feeding the fire, praying to them like we would Gods. The sun gives life and the black hole sucks it in and deprives us of its nectar. As bleak shadows we dance around the black fire and keep dancing in fear of being sucked in ourselves. The black wild fire spreading because we let it. We are fear stricken paralyzed creatures. And the black fire is growing wilder still.