Song of Songs

            The fog carries out the abyss of the last shadows.

            On the road, the sky still draws the remote phantom of the morning rain

The air is lighter and lighter.

            Flowers are blooming; fruits are falling on the grass separated from their sleep,

like some frail shadows.

            And there she is, like the spring revival, a body in its misty flight

shivering words: love, love, love, restless and endless echoes.

            Where are the holy days of the past, the apple trees in their pink blossom,

the river's valley wearing the sleeping gown of the night until dawn?

            Where are your words, whispered into my ears, and our love,

that looks today like a too short awakening?

            Or our dreams that mysteriously flew away to the silent sky?

            Where are the whitened beams chasing away our minds’ shadows,

and the orchard's leaves, rusting under the thin cloth of the rain,

and the Heaven's smell, drifting away further and further...?

            You see, how slowly the downfall smacks, the road is empty,

and on the path to the woods - the bunch of white feathers and the small indentations

on the blackberry bushes.

*

            To live in Heaven -remote memories that still exist - and to appease your life

with its triumphant return!

            "Once upon a time you were an elf, a fairy adorned with flowery brilliance,

an angel who disobeyed its divine origins".

            Oh, come, day of tomorrow, the most beautiful, the most ennobled day,

in which the memory of a happy dream may come true.

            Let the sky framing the color of the plain be more momentous than the days that passed.

            Let the garden's shadow shelter the flight of the Heaven's birds,

let the grass stretch its path towards the spotless thresholds

of the everlasting shores bathed today in banqueting chants.

            God speaks secretly to the alive: let your days of life fly as every other day,

chain-less, carrying above the hills crest the watery harp of the pure love,

awakened by the morning breeze, like a flight of an everlasting bird over the temporal furrows.

*

            Here is the day, at last: it seemed like yesterday in its waiting?

An imperishable tam-tam, a light in an unending voyage,

an impenetrable forever-ness after which you must run…

            And now, what are you craving after? A hope without glory,

a thought fulfilled in a cold, shadowy plain; its cherish words swept by the wind.

            Man telling to himself: “I’m still alive during my own life!”

            And, in the light wind of the land, close to the mill's water - hardly heated by the sun,

he hears coming from far away the invincible song of the day passing to its decline

through the flying grass thorns.

            Peacocks are sleeping next to the fountain,

the moon enters into the whitened flocks of the meadow, and then,

the silence comes, the mysterious peace still nailed in the childhood world:

a ragged sheaf, the fireflies, playing in circles, the shadows of the singing rain.

            Flying stars seem whispering in the shade of the wind,

and the earth ripens in the darkness like the rush of wind over the cloudless water.

*

            That's the time when the song starts: “During all dawns the garden

seems to open to the depth of the land”.

            Morning Love begins with the rooster’s song;

words that seem to have no place and no time begin their whisper:

            “Your beautiful voice, your small ears, your skin made to fathom unsung songs,

moans stolen from their sleep”.

            Where are your thoughts now? Far away, next to the celestial tree…

            The fruit, you moisten your lips in, and your teeth: white flowers like a wreath to the wind.

            Your hips like the moving sand., and your belly, burning under the rising sunrise.

            Your breasts, a bunch of heavy blossoms, your lips, a tiny red nest on a trembling branch…

            From the ineffable light of the first day - you grasped the aim of the immaculate songs:

the sermon in bed murmured by your red lips,

your eyes, appearing more limpid then the early morning light.

            An angel, at the window, heartened, wastes its flight for a look inside: halting...

*

            Back home, in silence, you craved for nothing

but to watch from above her body falling under your body,

and the wings of her armpit smell rustling, subtle, un-resting,

and to hear her giggles when feeling your love coming closer

and the ephemeral shore shining again afar. “It's me”, the bird says,

“it's me”; a cat leaping to catch a carnation in the dim lit window.

            “It's me!” A tall bride with watchful eyes, and you, her groom,

singing your love to her cautious ears:

            “Your loving voice is a sob; your belly ache is a cry,

your eyes, blackened dance into the air”.

            “My soul is a blind bird deserted by God in the valley”, she sung.

*

            Mist and flowery branches fallen on the morning's path:

how bright seem now the childhood days!

            Motionless smiles in the sighing sound of the valley stream;

the stars glitter above the road, as my beloved sings, hiding under the vine,

staring at the darkening sky: in the silence of the dusk, chimeras...

            The sticks are fully wrapped in convolvulus, yellow bind-weed;

oh, hope, wander again along the path of the oak forest, caressed by light,

blessed with love: summon me!

            On the path to the house, flowers torn by the wind.

            My forgotten steps, the blue leaves that solemnly fall on the doorstep...

            The cracking sound of the pole under the heavy rain…

            And, heard singing with the sound of your steps,

the chirp of the bird left behind by the hurried

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 12.11.2011
ISBN: 978-3-7309-2016-9

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