Four Swedish Poets

ERIK LINDEGREN

Old Indian

Yes, I recall my youth: a flame amid much smoke.
I remember it shrunken with fear: how it rose & burned
its own centre: in a rising desire to climb: to be wings
and to hurl into the blue crystal of space.

Now I can see how life expands
for I feel its cruelty.
The lost hawk's nest in a sunset of fire
is burned to a blessed ash
and I know that wings
are only for climbing as high as we see
in full compass, in compassionless light,
the landscape and huntings of youth.

From this height
you finally see your own death
...