Blue Cross
A translation of Sininen risti
Katrinainen the fair maiden
spent her summers as a cowherd,
saw strange visions;
she gazed into the blue sky,
listened as the trees spoke.
And so one day
clouds took the shape of towers,
misty temples arose,
golden churches were dimly seen
in a summer sunset,
in fleeting puffs of cloud.
She told others of her visions.
They listened and wondered,
told her to go to confession,
to make the sign of the cross;
a girl’s dream, they thought.
The young lady hid her visions. –
Then one day
fir trees spoke on a hill:
“Holy smoke does not thicken
in the heartlands of Karelia,
church bells do not tinkle,
no blessed water is sprinkled;
the fires of war are seen,
red blood gushes,
the battle axe makes music
at rushing streams,
in unbaptised lands.”
The young lady hid these words. –
She prayed, went to confession,
bowed in the morning and in the evening
at the base of God’s image;
the burning in her chest did not pass.
And so one day
she felt her mind leading her,
began travelling across lands;
she walked and walked along a forest road,
trees became taller, home receded,
sacred pillars grew,
dim chapels arched,
choirs sang beautifully,
golden bells tinkled
as Katrinainen walked,
as the good berry travelled.
She followed the sound she heard,
sought the visions of her eyes,
went where her mind led her;
she reached the sea,
came to a delta at a great water.
An island rose from the sea,
a hundred churches rose on the island,
golden roofs shone;
a boat was waiting by the shore,
a favourable wind blew on the sea.
The monks in a monastery
saw the maiden approach,
waved at the tip of a cape:
“Who are you among the daughters of women,
arriving on the holy isle?”
Wind carried the message from the sea:
“I am the one the Lord has made to blossom,
I come to the island of God.”
The holy ones fled from the shore,
gates were slammed shut,
dogs released from chains;
the island on the sea fell into silence,
becoming a city of the dead.
As the maiden came from the sea,
every bell on the island rang;
as she knocked on the sacred gate,
iron chains unravelled;
as she came to the court of the monastery,
dogs came to lick her hand;
as she entered Lord’s room,
golden images bowed.
The holy men were amazed:
“What maiden is this –
the dogs do not touch her,
every bell on the island rings!”
The abbot examined the girl:
“How did you find the way here?”
“I found the way thus:
the sun drew marks on trees,
the moon built a sign.”
The abbot examined further:
“Have you consumed meat?”
“I thought of the pain of Jesus,
listened to the speech of trees,
that awoke my strength.”
The abbot finally asked:
“In whose huts have you lain?”
“I wept for the unbaptised,
gazed into the blue sky;
then my soul was at rest.”
The abbot raised his hands:
“Go, one whom the Lord has made to blossom,
bear a fair flower of the sun,
spread a blessed seed!”
She was sent back,
and for her protection she was given
a layman from the monastery;
they began finding the way
to the darkest ends of the land.
Woods became thicker, rapids wilder,
streams flowed stronger, lands rose,
fells became steeper,
wooded valleys gloomier,
bears were growling;
they arrived at the tip of a cape
surrounded by serene lakes.
Her protector became her menace,
grabbing the braid-wearer with his hands,
pleading with the hallowed maiden;
she gave a loud cry:
“Lord, my sorrows are great,
yet your deeds are greater,
think not of me,
think of those not baptised!”
The Lord heard the bright one’s cry
and gave a sign: He changed the maiden
into a blue cross
in the rustling deep woods,
at the banks of two waters,
so that a guilty man may embrace her,
a repentant man grab her.
Time went on, years passed,
the world itself changed.
Now holy smoke thickened,
now church bells tinkled,
now blessed water was sprinkled
at the darkest ends of the land,
in the heartlands of Karelia.
Yet for a long time people told the story
of the making of the blue cross
at the echoing graveyard,
at the deep woods
at the banks of two waters.
Even wider was known
the memory of the holy man
who built a chapel
at the root of God’s sign,
baptising people and teaching them.
The furthest of of all shone
the blue cross itself
at the strait, at the end of the bridge,
near the chapel of the village,
as the church bells tinkled,
as the serene lakes were at rest,
as the day passed away.
As the traveller roamed.
Katrinainen the fair maiden
spent her summers as a cowherd,
saw strange visions;
she gazed into the blue sky,
listened as the trees spoke.
And so one day
clouds took the shape of towers,
misty temples arose,
golden churches were dimly seen
in a summer sunset,
in fleeting puffs of cloud.
She told others of her visions.
They listened and wondered,
told her to go to confession,
to make the sign of the cross;
a girl’s dream, they thought.
The young lady hid her visions. –
Then one day
fir trees spoke on a hill:
“Holy smoke does not thicken
in the heartlands of Karelia,
church bells do not tinkle,
no blessed water is sprinkled;
the fires of war are seen,
red blood gushes,
the battle axe makes music
at rushing streams,
in unbaptised lands.”
The young lady hid these words. –
She prayed, went to confession,
bowed in the morning and in the evening
at the base of God’s image;
the burning in her chest did not pass.
And so one day
she felt her mind leading her,
began travelling across lands;
she walked and walked along a forest road,
trees became taller, home receded,
sacred pillars grew,
dim chapels arched,
choirs sang beautifully,
golden bells tinkled
as Katrinainen walked,
as the good berry travelled.
She followed the sound she heard,
sought the visions of her eyes,
went where her mind led her;
she reached the sea,
came to a delta at a great water.
An island rose from the sea,
a hundred churches rose on the island,
golden roofs shone;
a boat was waiting by the shore,
a favourable wind blew on the sea.
The monks in a monastery
saw the maiden approach,
waved at the tip of a cape:
“Who are you among the daughters of women,
arriving on the holy isle?”
Wind carried the message from the sea:
“I am the one the Lord has made to blossom,
I come to the island of God.”
The holy ones fled from the shore,
gates were slammed shut,
dogs released from chains;
the island on the sea fell into silence,
becoming a city of the dead.
As the maiden came from the sea,
every bell on the island rang;
as she knocked on the sacred gate,
iron chains unravelled;
as she came to the court of the monastery,
dogs came to lick her hand;
as she entered Lord’s room,
golden images bowed.
The holy men were amazed:
“What maiden is this –
the dogs do not touch her,
every bell on the island rings!”
The abbot examined the girl:
“How did you find the way here?”
“I found the way thus:
the sun drew marks on trees,
the moon built a sign.”
The abbot examined further:
“Have you consumed meat?”
“I thought of the pain of Jesus,
listened to the speech of trees,
that awoke my strength.”
The abbot finally asked:
“In whose huts have you lain?”
“I wept for the unbaptised,
gazed into the blue sky;
then my soul was at rest.”
The abbot raised his hands:
“Go, one whom the Lord has made to blossom,
bear a fair flower of the sun,
spread a blessed seed!”
She was sent back,
and for her protection she was given
a layman from the monastery;
they began finding the way
to the darkest ends of the land.
Woods became thicker, rapids wilder,
streams flowed stronger, lands rose,
fells became steeper,
wooded valleys gloomier,
bears were growling;
they arrived at the tip of a cape
surrounded by serene lakes.
Her protector became her menace,
grabbing the braid-wearer with his hands,
pleading with the hallowed maiden;
she gave a loud cry:
“Lord, my sorrows are great,
yet your deeds are greater,
think not of me,
think of those not baptised!”
The Lord heard the bright one’s cry
and gave a sign: He changed the maiden
into a blue cross
in the rustling deep woods,
at the banks of two waters,
so that a guilty man may embrace her,
a repentant man grab her.
Time went on, years passed,
the world itself changed.
Now holy smoke thickened,
now church bells tinkled,
now blessed water was sprinkled
at the darkest ends of the land,
in the heartlands of Karelia.
Yet for a long time people told the story
of the making of the blue cross
at the echoing graveyard,
at the deep woods
at the banks of two waters.
Even wider was known
the memory of the holy man
who built a chapel
at the root of God’s sign,
baptising people and teaching them.
The furthest of of all shone
the blue cross itself
at the strait, at the end of the bridge,
near the chapel of the village,
as the church bells tinkled,
as the serene lakes were at rest,
as the day passed away.
As the traveller roamed.