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.
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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. –
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And we’ll both have disappeared out of the world,
my beloved lyre!