My lyre

Edith Södergran: The September Lyre

I resent the thought…

Where is my giant, beloved lyre?

The sunshine-stringed, magnificent, which hangs down from the clouds.

Oh you my giant lyre,

you hang over the world like a question mark.

- - - - - - - - -

When I die

I’ll throw myself carefree at your strings;

then two spirits will rise out of the unknown,

sleeping they’ll carry us over the seas

and stop in the middle of the Atlantic. –

- - - - - - - -

And we’ll both have disappeared out of the world,

my beloved lyre!