by Karin Boye

Your warmth,  your soft warmth
I beg for,
streaming long before man
came on the Earth.
In the hidden virgin forest's downy
bird's-nests
bore the strongholds of life
the same protective warmth.

From anguish-burning skies
we sink into
the darkness of the nest, where life
no longer questions.
For the games of the clouds are an illusion
and a reflection,
but all which is born an bears
is the gift of the deep.

Day is dawning, and the air is full 
of swishing wings.
The soaring bird rejoices:
I live from light!
But hidden in the silence rests
his welfare.
Your warmth, your deep warmth
gives me a soul.