By Edith Södergran
Wandering clouds have fastened themselves to the mountain’s edge,
for endless hours they stand in silence and wait:
if a chivvying wind wants to strew them over the plain
they should rise with the sun over the snow of the summits.
Wandering clouds have set themselves in the way of the sun,
the mourning pennants of everyday hang so heavily,
down in the valley life walks with dragging feet,
the sounds of a grand piano sing from open windows.
Strip upon strip is the valley’s motley carpet,
firm as sugar is the heights’ eternal snow…
The winter steps softly down into the valley.
The giants smile.
