by Heinz Piontek
The routes of fate, with my life I take their measure
And reflect on them with one half of my mind
Days when the green wheat rolls and billows
When the cuckoo's call counts out what cannot be lost
And the farmers follow the wind with their ploughs -
With gentle understanding these I have linked together.
Gladly I bend under my burden of nettles and dead wood,
The sky is a crystal tambourine which softly your fingers shake,
Lombardy poplars escort me on my way.
Your goodness is like old sunshine on twigs that will soon be sprouting.
I am quiet with you.
White doves fly up to your heart.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment