This time, there’s only one: One single. One lonely poem.
Gone with the wind…
Thirsty a lone wind blows
Over all these barren hills,
Even the moon no longer shines.
No sun, no rainbow,
Still waiting for rain.
Hope is a prison, you said,
Hope is a prison:
And everywhere you look,
The wind is always blowing.
Hope is a prison.
But that’s not true:
Hope is like the morning breeze
When we long at the window,
Hope is the messenger
Of the near golden sunrise,
Hope is the little lark
That announces the coming day.
It is up to us whether we open
Ourselves to the future or
Whether we lock the windows
And remain in darkness.
Hope is like the morning breeze
When we long at the window,
Hope is the messenger
Of the near golden sunrise,
Hope is the little lark
That announces the coming day.
It is up to us whether we open
Ourselves to the future or
Whether we lock the windows
And remain in darkness.
Resurrection.
Hope is a prison:
Thus speaks the one
Who is full of inner darkness.
Hope is a prison,
Howls the wolf from within,
Who knocks on the unhearted doors
Of all those, who have already
Surrendered to him, completely.
Thus speaks the one
Who is full of inner darkness.
Hope is a prison,
Howls the wolf from within,
Who knocks on the unhearted doors
Of all those, who have already
Surrendered to him, completely.
Hope is a prison
Only, if it remains alone,
If love and faith do not make
It complete in company.
In three, they are unbeatable,
And the path would be passable.
But now it is blown away in the wind,
Our path, and desert grows
Where once forests were green.
And the old Lady’s magic is gone
Because no one believed in it any more,
Because faith has been reviled
And the soul has imprisoned itself:
Without all hope,
Precisely because.
Our path, and desert grows
Where once forests were green.
And the old Lady’s magic is gone
Because no one believed in it any more,
Because faith has been reviled
And the soul has imprisoned itself:
Without all hope,
Precisely because.
* * *
