Edith Södergran: The Land Which Is Not
Look, here’s the beach of eternity
where the stream runs past,
and death plays in the bushes
its certain, repetitive melody.
Death, why do you silence?
We were long underway
and long to hear,
we never had a wet-nurse
who could sing like you do.
The wreath that never adorned my brow
I silently lay at your feet.
Now show me a wondrous country
where the tall palm-trees stand
and where the waves of longing
run between the rows of columns.