At Nietzsche's grave

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.

Enigmatic father!

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.