Image from le love.
"Afraid of the dark, my poor young thing,
who met spirits of another kind,
among the white-clad ever noticing
others of evil mind,
now I want to sing gentle songs to you,
they deliver from fear, cramp, coercion rude.
They do not ask that the evil should rue,
They do not ask for the fight of the good.
Then you shall know that all that lives
deep inside is of the same kind.
As trees and plants it can grow hesitantly,
by its own law upwards inclined.
And trees may be felled and flowers be broken
and branches die with their strength dried up,
but the dream is concealed - wills to be awoken -
in every living drop of sap."
My Poor Young Thing... by Karin Boye. From 'Karin Boye: Complete Poems'.
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