Karin Boye, author (October 26, 1900 – April 24, 1941)

outside the Gothenburg Library on Kungsportsavenyn

 

Of Course It Hurts

Of course it hurts when buds burst.

Otherwise why would spring hesitate?

Why would all our fervent longing

be bound in the frozen bitter haze?

The bud was the casing all winter.

What is this new thing, which consumes and bursts?

Of course it hurts when buds burst,

pain for that which grows

and for that which envelops.

 

Of course it is hard when drops fall.

Trembling with fear they hang heavy,

clammer on the branch, swell and slide -

the weight pulls them down, how they cling.

Hard to be uncertain, afraid and divided,

hard to feel the deep pulling and calling,

yet sit there and just quiver -

hard to want to stay

and to want to fall.

 

Then, at the point of agony and when all is beyond

help,

the tree's buds burst as if in jubilation,

then, when fear no longer exists,

the branch's drops tumble in a shimmer,

forgetting that they were afraid of the new,

forgetting that they were fearful of the journey -

feeling for a second their greatest security,

resting in the trust

that creates the world.

 

Done