by Karin Boye

Each word from you is like a seed.
Boring its root deeply.
I am awakened by a secret pain
and find no cure.

Then each movement you made
consumes me like a bitter thirst.
Each sound and each glance
are close, clear and great.

My day is grey with me and mine,
which blurs your image.
But mirror-clear is the world of night,
where you are everything, everything.