Tell no-one, except the Sages,
for the Mass will scorn my song,
among the living I shall praise
the one who for fire-death long.
In the coolness of the love-nights,
which begat what you begot,
you’re overcome with foreign feelings
when the candle-lights burn hot.
You’re no longer kept imprisoned
by this life-times gloomy shadows,
in you rise a newborn vision;
mating of a higher sort.
No difficulty lies in distance,
now you’re soaring spell-bound,
and in the end, the light desiring
you will, butterfly, be burned.
And as long as you have not
this tried: To die and be!
you will be on this dark Earth
a gloomy guest only.
— translated by K-M Skalkenæs, 31/1-2012