Edith Södergran: The September Lyre
The great hunter has died…
I drape over his grave warm flower carpets.
I kiss the cold rock and say:
here’s your first child in tears of joy.
Chuckling I sit on your grave
like an insult – more beautiful than you dreamt.
Your children won’t let you down,
they walk over the Earth with godly steps
and rub their eyes: I wonder where I am?
No, really… here is my place,
here is the dilapidated grave of my father…
Gods… keep eternal watch over this place.