Why was life given to me?

Edith Södergran: The September Lyre

Why was life given to me

to rush past everybody in the chariot of triumph,

unachievable, fast as fate,

unconscious and without will,

in perpetual longing?

 

Why was life given to me

to, with hands decorated with rings,

to grasp the beaming bowl

I conjured up

in steady thirst?

 

Why was life given to me

to be passed like a magic book from hand to hand,

burning through all souls,

streaming like the fire over the ashes

in steady thirst?