Edith Södergran: The September Lyre
Never did a lusty glance deceive.
Hold the man’s heart between your inexperienced child-fingers,
draw the man’s flames into the icy chamber of your eyes!
You believe in love like you believe in Heaven.
He shall give you his heart, a realm and all the flowers of spring,
and you give him the light veil of your longing which makes the distance blue.
As of yet your breath hasn’t touched the trembling light of his happiness.
As of yet your eye hasn’t fathomed the depths of his faith.
As of yet your feet haven’t stepped into the closed circle of his fate;
it is still the same for you whether he is red or blue.
But a day will come when you’re stuck
to him like a flower to its stem,
where his dusk is your light and his drought your well,
where you roam around in the halls of a vast castle and feel that you love,
that he lives solely off of the white bread of your purity,
that his blood only runs in the brook of your maternal tenderness.
It must be heavy and wondrous and hard and inseperable.