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.