Graveyard fantasy

Edith Södergran: The Land Which Is Not

What is it which sounds from the graveyard: My own! My love!

Whom is it who yells in the fog?

It is the warrior’s wife who runs out to meet her husband.

The image of God’s mother hangs on a snow-white cross with the child Jesus,

and the wind brushes the lilacs here and there on the fresh grave.

And in her white bridal attire she sleeps calmly with the child on her arm.

Why is your brow so colourless and pale, young woman?

Your black locks caress nobody anymore,

your black locks,

and your feet in thin silk shoes, they feel nothing.

 

You flee further away than where the moon stands between the branches of the birch,

you flee further away than where the sun itself, the sun shines.

You took your child on the arm and jumped as strongly as you could,

and all stars did you leave behind, the stars below you.

Where the child Jesus sits in the arms of the Virgin, thereto have you gone,

and you have won all that a human heart can give.

What is it that sounds from the graveyard: My own! My love!

Whom is it who yells in the fog?

It is the warrior’s wife who runs out to meet her husband.