Mosaic made from fragments of emotion —
A tiny drop of elixir, gold tear
Pressed from life’s dark and obscure potion —
A whole from what true wholeness cannot near —
A cipher game played with the best jewels chosen
From language and shy dreams, light, silver-clear —
Child of the present hour and of the notion
The poet creates — words’ happy, blithe fakir —
A footprint of the moment’s flying glimmer,
Of music no ear ever heard, a tremor,
A mirror-image poured on glistening floods.
An arrow shot high in the sky, ashimmer,
A drop of blood poured out from veins that simmer —
Behold your essence, poetry, game of gods!
Bertel Gripenberg (1878 - 1947) Finland
Translated by David McDuff
Source: Nordic Voices in Print
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