Blossom and leaf know change and turn,
earth days see constant beginning and end;
hold the spark of eternal fire in hand,
smile at vanishing years,
ignore the tick of the clock,
take the staff and continue to walk
the road, the steep winding stairs.
Peoples scattered like leaves swept by storm.
World fire blazes, death reaps on earth.
Preserve this flame of mysterious birth,
which knows no decay, only lasting desire,
whose agony is lost in blissful devotion.
From a flowering exuberant explosion
incense clouds of sweetness expire.
Time dissolves easily, so full of sun,
drink from the scarlet chalice of this day.
Gently, the linden tree hangs an array
over us: its subtle green filigree veils.
Chimes, in the distance, sound,
hours like fluttering leaves fall to ground
slowly in the counting weighing scales.
Darkish and solemn under bitter air
leaves rustle on the narrow path,
announcing early autumn days.
Sweetly suffused by ripe apples’ scent,
trees stretch their bronze-golden branches.
Wine winds purple chains round walls,
so rich and ripe, so full, this summer's end.
Shining like last bouquets of flowers
embraces summer selves in final love,
whispers goodbye; the cooing of a dove,
the heavy perfume of saved hay,
silage, straw, cabbage and apples,
of pumpkins and grapes;
sustenance for long cold winter days.
Like sweet woodlark’s song,
flows quickly on soft wings
sunshine spreads on undulating hills,
dew-wind unites with winding rills.
Wafts from the sirens’ songs,
oscillate like sounds of sea,
deep subconscious longing,
gives us time to think.
Crickets fiddle in the grass,
a creek runs through rough stones,
the rose glows in the garden,
gorse blooms along the fields.
Far the scream of jackdaws;
then a long and heavy sigh.
As if the mountain takes a breath,
gusts are falling from the high.
Buzzing through the treetops
a swarm of rushing birds
and from the beech slope
short wing beats of a dove.
Shepherd and flock seek rest,
near fields of corn abundance,
and on orchard’s fruited vines
still rests the summer silence.
On sylvan peaceful scene
the sun is shining brightly,
and stripes of light lightly
move along like hands.
The late summer’s sun
rests on bare rock’s face
to grant to moss and ivy
a last warm favour’s grace.
Waiting for the reaping hook,
rich meadows’ golden gift,
soon yet the austere, rough
threshers’ work comes to an end.
Harvest celebrations fade away
around the rich filled barns,
around the farmhouse’s threshing floor
summer night drapes veils galore.
The opulent harvest time
is gone, the green pollen waves
and dust of rye and wheat fields
are blown and flown away.
Scurrying through fences’ laths,
from the stable to the shed
slipped a marten’s fleeting shadow,
swiftly up the birch tree’s trunk.
From deep forests soothing silence,
when the silent star balls glow,
distant the monotone night’s song
of steady falling waterfalls.
Final strokes of nine
peal from a village tower,
whining of a mandolin
over the dreaming hover.
Hay moon’s morn and eve
Mellow are the July nights
when the sunset’s reddish fading
and the early morning lights
dawning blur and blend together.
When summer with red roses
bleeds to death so rapidly,
cawing ravens mourn the dead,
the blackbird has not sung
its last song yet.
Warm rays from the sunset
make distant peaks glow red,
the scream of the wild eagle
sounds over the forest silhouette,
while pale-cold falls the mist
into the closing day.
Under lime trees, under elms,
under thatched roof’s hanging wings
overgrown with moss and weeds,
stretching wide and shielding.
I want to put into a song
what on moonlit village green
I heard the fairies lisping.
What grey stone’s mossy green
inscription said to me.
Fog pictures rise in twilight,
from the dark days ‘past.
I hear faint voices whisp’ring,
sounds of pleasure, lament, anger.
A last farewell, so distant.
Silent night in the deep forest
around the birches’ black white bark;
around the alder’s trunks so dark,
flows the moonlight soft and mild.
(Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is an artist and a translator and writer of poetry, crime novels and short stories. He is writing haibun, tanka, haiku and poetry in four languages: English, French, Spanish and German and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose. He is a member of four writer groups in Ireland and lives in County Kerry, Ireland, for more than 25 years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany. He was published in 59 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in UK, Ireland, Canada and USA. Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan)
The Beautiful Space-