The bride

Edith Södergran: The Land Which Is Not

My circle is narrow and the ring of my thoughts

is closed around my finger.

Something warm lies at the bottom of all the unknown surrounding me,

like the faint smell in the chalice of the waterlilies.

Thousands of apples hang in my father’s garden,

round and perfect –

such too has my undecided life become

shaped, round, swelling and smooth and – simple.

Narrow is my circle and the ring of my thoughts

is closed around my finger.