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.