A wreath of cloudberries

I am a wreath, blowing obsolete,

Like a corpse that wanders endlessly;

My hair and skin, my eyes, akin

To the leaves that fall upon soft mossy lichen.

-

As a wreath of poppies may seep,

Sweet opium upon my rocky gravesite, steep:

My corpse then rise, uncomprimis’d,

With perceptions of eternal fires.

-

The wreath of bakeapples, of cloudberries blown,

Unto the bottom of my grave, my grey funeral stone,

The wind takes their leaves, in an autumnal breeze;

A wreath that proves I agree and am pleased,

-

With my abhorred spot, of eternal rest,

Now I lie - under cloudberries

As Hell's puppet and Heaven's reject.