Edith Södergran: The Rose Altar
The martyr is pale.
His eyes burn.
Pitying he looks
down at you.
What do you know about
what swarms here and there
with grim movements,
what do you know about your welfare,
how does it feel to raise your head freely.
He is acquitted
whom the rest of the world condemns.
The purest sun
is the black desire.
The victim’s multi-coloured coat
he takes lightly on his shoulders:
you caress like velvet, like the softest velvet –
the garment of my will.