The storm

Edith Södergran: The September Lyre


doesn’t the storm pass over the sky

that your longing has piled up

by eagles borne

to eternal heights?

Who will bring the storm to its knees?

Where does it hit,

when it comes from the heights, reckless, with the wings of distant times?

Do you hear

voices in the storm?

Mars helmets in the fog…

Guests re-assemble at the turned tables.

Unknowns rule the world…

Higher, more beautiful, godlike.