Vyhľadávanie
AN EMBROIDERED HANDKERCHIEF
Veronika, Veronika,
when do children make,
an embroidered handkerchief
for Jesus Christ’s sake?
Children as yet do not know the Cross
they have not seen what you and I have.
Closer to Bethlehem they should live
than beside Golgotha’s loss.
We should seek and try to find
what will not hurt a childish mind.
Jesus is too dark for them
when He suffers on the Cross,
He trembles that His wounds will harm
the understanding of the very young.
Only when the feast of Resurrection lifts our grief
should they embroider Him a handkerchief.
MIRACULOUS MUSHROOMS
I dreamed that I was walking in a meadow
full, so full of mushrooms.
Indeed everything seemed just fine
where a miracle was no mistake,
everything was possible in God’s sunshine
with heaven under his little finger.
The years go by, my time draws to its close.
And little dreams have stayed as little dreams.
Only you have shown me after time,
where a miracle is no mistake.
Again it’s just simply fine: I walk in wonder
through a meadow full of mushrooms.
Only with you are little dreams fulfilled.
You yourself are my little dream.
And I warm myself in its sunshine
leaning above your album.
FLOWERS REMAIN
A bouquet of flowers
and three sad birds.
What are these, darling?
Songs or ballads?
And children crying seldom ask
how destiny takes us to task.
Yet a loving power above that keeps close watch
and always will its guardianship sustain.
Tears that spring out are quickly staunched.
Birds fly away.
Flowers remain.
THANKSGIVING FOR A HARVEST
Don’t say a word
to utter everything.
Indeed the face of God is dumb.
You, the declaration of little witnesses,
are praise to His name.
Without words and just in passing
scooped from His work.
Then again further about the home
like a butterfly or bee –
only a child is permitted.
The voice of God
resounds there, carefree.
So Mozart composes it in the course of time.
And from it poor Van Gogh goes mad.
THE SLEEP OF THE JUST
You sleep upon your face,
you breathe into the pillow.
A lamb sleeps like this in grass.
Slowly with its own wool darkness
covers it... A dream hovers
like a bird above tired flowers.
For a flower, too, is tired
and the quiet sleep of the saints tiptoes about.
The lamb’s head droops to the grass
recalling what the day has brought,
a dream beneath each eyelid.
And the meadow guards its children from all harm.
I am a meadow – and you are the lamb.
Translation James Sutherland-Smith
