Poem of the week

ANGUISH by Par Lagerkvist

Anguish, anguish is my heritage,
the wound of my throat,
the cry of my heart in the world.
Now the lathered sky congeals
in the coarse hand of night;
now the forests
and the rigid heights
rise barrenly against
the dwarfed vault of the sky.
How hard everything is,
how stiffened, black and silent!

I grope about this darkened room,
I feel the sharp edge of the cliff against my finger.
I tear my sore and aching hands
on the hills and darkened woods,
on the black iron of sky
and on the cold earth!

Anguish, anguish is my heritage,
the wound of my throat,
the cry of my heart in the world.