Autumn

Edith Södergran: The Land Which Is Not

Now it is autumn and the golden birds

all fly home over deep blue waters;

on the beach I sit and stare

in the midst of the trembling glare

and the hour of parting sighs through the branches.

Great is the parting, separation near,

but reunion certain.

Therefore the sleep will be light when I fall asleep with my arm under my head.

I feel a mother’s breath on my eyes

and a mother’s mouth against my heart:

sleep now, my child, for the sun has gone –