Edith Södergran: Poems
The light birds high in the air
don’t fly for me,
but the heavy stones on the low beach
rest for me.
Long did I lay at the foot of the sinister mountain
and listen to the wind’s command
in the strong branches of the fir.
Here I lay on my stomach and stare straight ahead:
here everything is strange and awakens no memories,
my thoughts weren’t born here in this place;
here the air is rough and the stones slippery,
here everything is dead and calls for no amusement,
except for the broken flute the spring abandoned on the beach.