Kaarlo Sarkia(1902-1945)
Your voice I don't hear, your hand I don't receive, arousing
at the dawn of September's reddening mornings.
Into Matthiola's pearly coil flares dawn's flame
and in the cranberries rubifies mauve.
You are gone.
Yet flowers of memories, so large, one after another
blossom into awareness and into the eye's pupil rise.
Soon earth's herbs will sleep in the snowdrift's linen,
yet in the blood's purple
still the flowers of a certain spring blaze.
(Syyskuun kukkia; Unen Kaivo, 1936.)
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