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!