Do not look for the stones
in water above the mud,
the boat is gone.
No longer with nets and baskets
the river is dotted.
The sun wick,
the marsh marigold flickered out in rain.
Only the willow still bears witness,
in its roots
the secrets of tramps lie hidden,
their paltry treasures,
a rusty fishhook,
a bottle full of sand,
a tine with no bottom,
in which to preserve
conversations long forgotten.
On the boughs,
empty nests of the penduline titmice,
shoes light as birds.
No one slips them
over children's feet.
Translated by Michael Hamburger
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Comments about this poem (Eastern River by Peter Huchel )
- GRACE, Itsoghole O Solomon
- Clock Moments, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- I Promise You, Lilly Emery
- Rock my boat, george albot
- Those who complain النئائين, MOHAMMAD SKATI
- 3 Petal Flowers, Kyle Schlicher
- Prosperity Milking Cow Of Good, sallam yassin
- A Blank Page, Elia Michael
- Three Score and Ten, Frank Avon
- Mary Key, Lilly Emery
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