The bull

Edith Södergran: The September Lyre

What awaits the bull?

My character is a red cloth.

Do I not see bloody, red eyes,

do I not hear short, ragged breaths,

does the earth not tremble under ferocious hooves?


The bull has no horns.

He stands at the crib

and stubbornly chews his tough hay.

Unpunished the red cloth waves in the wind!