When does far seem near, and near far -
That's the ocean's hollow sound;
She awakes, stretches, does not mar,
The painterly blue that has wound
Itself around her. Noting the door ajar,
She feels unbound,
Like the stillness in a pale flower,
Like the mystery of a clock-tower.
Tea arrives, they are seated,
There is no conversation;
Madame T. nods. When the waitress has concluded,
R. says: " Yesterday, I was at the station,
A woman came up to me and asked:
" Sir, what is your destination? " '
Smiling, I answer: " Where no one wants to stay;
From where nobody goes away! "
Late summer: russet, olive-green and gold,
Fold silk-like over the lake,
A gentle breeze passes through the wold;
It seemed as if nature had banished the ache,
Now forged into a perpetual mould,
Ignoring, high above and far, a break,
Grown out of black shadow and light-flash;
Setting the scene for an almighty clash.
An open window, sunlight pouring through;
Lucy lifts her leg, higher than the level of the bath,
Runs hands along it, feels it supple and smooth;
Suds that fall onto her nose and breast, make her laugh;
Reminding, how many a man has tried to woo
Her, but only the lucky few, have the craft,
To ever be inside,
And make her feel like the day, is wide.
A young man steps onto a tram,
Takes a seat,
The doors shut like a clam,
He seems to drift into a dream,
Carried along past the city's cram;
Takes out pen and paper and writes:
Here where my journeys start;
That's the beginning of my art.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem