Eliké of Space,
how bare, how vulnerable and weak she is.
Whirling before Loki in her witch-dance
on the the edge of the moon
where the stars of midnight touch with benevolent rays.
Eliké of Space,
among meadow flower and violet.
How lost, how yearning and dreaming she is,
by the murmuring rill while the string blurs over the gleaming violin,
there, just there where the beginning of life flows around her feet.
Eliké of Space.
Wanders on the Sea.
How tranquil, how content and carefree, she is,
in the almost violent center of the storm,
where the body is strengthened by power so generous.
Eliké of Space.
Invisible but alive.
How searching, how loving and tendely caressing, she is,
in her soul where, by praise, the circle come close.
Eliké of Space,
ephemeral and unpredictable.
How playful, how fantastic and difficult to reach.
She is an Angel of the Moon and as such, the answer from the universe.
by Rose-Marie Sandelius
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