Edith Södergran: Poems
Life looks most like death, her sister.
Death is no different,
you can caress her and hold her hand and stroke her hair,
she will hand you a flower and smile.
You can hide your face at her bosom
and hear her say: it’s time to go.
She shall not tell you that she is someone else.
Death doesn’t lay green and pale with her face to the ground
or outstretched on the white stretcher:
Death walks around with glowing cheeks and talks to everybody.
Death has vague features and pious cheeks,
at your heart she will lay her soft hand.
The one who has felt the soft hand at his heart
the sun won’t warm,
he is cold as ice and loves nobody.