youtube/watch?v=zfSeKrwlUV8 What The Wind Has Etched in Sand Hermann Hesse That beauty and charm Be only a breath and shudder; That the precious and delightful Be fair without duration: Cloud, flower, soap bubble, Firework and childrens laughter, A womans glance in the mirrored glass, And many another thing of wonder, That they, scarce discovered, fading With just a moments lifespan, Are only a scent and puff of wind; Oh, that we know with sadness. And what is lasting, rigid Has not for us such inward worth: A gemstone with its outward fire, The solid shine of a bar of gold; Even the stars innumerable Stay far and strange and do not resemble Us mortals; or reach into The innermost depths of souls. No. It seems that innermost beauty, Is inclined to ruin all endearment Always near to dying; And the most precious: the sounds Of music, that, at their creation, Already fleeing, already fading, Are only breezes, currents, fleeting thoughts Fanned by quiet mourning. Not even for a heartbeat Do they last, entrance; Note after note, when hardly sounded, Fades already and races hence. Thus, is our heart to fleeting things, To fluidity, to life Loyally and fraternally devoted, Not to the firm and truly lasting. Soon, we tire of all that stays: Rocks, starry canopy and jewels Transform us eternally into thrusting Souls of wind and soap bubbles, Time dependant, unsustaining, To which dew on the rose leaf, To which a birds desires, The dying of a cloudbank, The shimmer of the snow, rainbow, Butterfly, already flown away, To which the ring of laughter That, in passing by, Hardly touching us, can mean a feast Or touch of woe. We love What is like us and understand What the wind has etched in sand. Translation: © David Paley
Posted on: Mon, 27 Jan 2014 11:25:22 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015