The low beach

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.