Meeting

Buried by the horizon
like a coffin is the view there
While here:
one breast of a hillock is suckling yonder little plateau
released from your outspread arm's span.
At moonrise the landscape itself draws fainter,
fainter,
even farther.
See now
how like a rocking cradle it gives itself into your keeping.
T'is I who with outstretching hand tempt toward me the distance.
Clutching hold of the far edge of the world's rim
I shall pull down that dim landscape.
The horizon's son shall not disengage his embracing arms
around your shoulders:
never.
Staring at you are the mightly eyes of the air.

Lilac

Earth tears
itself up
by the roots
from the overheated centre:
world storm tossed is training
with splitting great tree trunks!
Only once did
May
awhile blow in passing.
From the clods of soil a wide wind arose:
green grass!
But a single fragrant word from tears.
And I seized my joy
which fluttered off aloft there migrating
like a bird's nest formed of earth's flesh high soaring:
onwards!
Wafting perfumed breath of windblown springtime:
lilac

A Passing Moment

I lie amid long grass bespattered with butter-cups.
Like ,mayflies over the pond quivering swarm the
bright heat sparks.
Watching a flower grows from my eyes:
a dandelion thrusting skywards.
I fade in a gust of perfume
and die thus.

The Path

Many times this path
has been exchanged, the way joining these thickets,
which again you hand to me at your parting.
You leave me:
willows in double rows hide the path's bending.
Day is brief as a skirt only kneelength.
The swift calves ares still in sight receding
though soon the curves's edge wraps itself about your waist.
Far from me, where you wander?
Just in front at the obstinate slope of a little steep hill
you look back
searching out the path
which your slender long legs standing thigh deep in
the evening have strayed from.

Evening

That very starlight
whispered evening like a faint confession.
The lamps drew out of doorways dark in the street
and in the air they stopped, hanging silent.
Twilight gently transforms the far distance.
The gardens have allowed their trees to droop down,
greyish riverside houses have flowed on.
Grief between low banks' mid alders glides.
At the horizon the moon
alone shows the sky's rim
and far into remembrance leads the roadway.
between us your own hands are sowing empty miles.