by Hjalmar Gullberg
He came like a wind.
What does a wind care about what he can't do?
He kissed your cheek.
He kissed all blood to your skin.
It should have stayed there:
you were another's, only borrowed
an evening in the time of lilacs
and the month of laburnums.
He kissed your ear, your hair.
What does a wind bother about
whether he is allowed?
On your eyes, you were kissed blind.
Of course, you did not at all want,
at first, return his yearning.
But soon your arm were around his neck
in the month of laburnum.
From your mouth he has kissed away
the last resistance there was.
Your mouth rests, silent,
with lips half parted, against his.
A wind comes and goes
and your entire world picture collapses
for a breeze from the spring of lilacs
and the racemes of laburnums.
