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Song
of the Colonists
At
the plow I learned to go,
The need taught me to stand
Through the duty I came in walking
. . .
with the view in the distance.
The
day brings me only plagues,
the night secretly gnawing
and the hunger at the threshold,
and the thirst my companion…
The
seed grows so poorly for me,
the mower throws so terribly
and the disaster in the clouds
loaded with weeds.
The
song goes in rounds,
the torment crowns me on the hour,
there the fate is in doses-
and the way leads to the grave.
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Windmill Grinds
Sun shines,
Winds blow,
Mill grinds,
Winds go,
Swing wide,
Rustle, wave far,
Lured by the many winds,
Spellbinding in the roundabout play,
Serving in the yoke, they work, prevail.
Long hours, busily turn,
Grinding delay,
Hesitate – rear up
When it became red far in the evening,
Hurry away the wind
trotting . . .
Leave the mill standing, alone
. . .
It’s free, restrained,
And listen in the silent twilight
And dream
. . .
Round tower
Powerful wings
Stand in the storm
On the hill,
Dark night
Darkness has power:
Roaring up from the valley and gorge,
Storm the night with fantastic force;
Wrestling wings, groaning,
Storm-tossed owls hoot;
Break – bend,
Drag – rock;
Finally whirl away the round dance –
Timidly creeps near the silence…
In the bosom of the night the storm varies.
The morning rewards
The mill hums her ancient song-
For bread
. . .
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