The Movement of Leaves
There was something strange about the leaves Something deliberate in their movements As if they were up to something. - . - Leaves. What are they rushing for? Chasing Some goal we have no way of knowing. Rushing - chasing - gathering - Preparing For an Uproar in the society of leaves. Forming A movement of leaves from last fall. Claiming The street - the entire street for the leaves! - Deserted by everyone else As streets are on Sunday mornings When all but the leaves are asleep. We who sleep, rest and recover From attempted escapes, flights of fancy That never take us too far. For we always know, where we'll end up. In some bed, on some Sunday, hung-over. (Yes, some Saturdays may last for ages. But Mondays are certain to come.) Yet while we sleep, while we rest and recover Each leaf is ready to go With him who brings different air, Joining the movement of leaves, making way for a change. The leaves sense it coming. Do we?
Neue Texte zum Label 'Gedicht':
- Schneller als man denkt 23.05.2012
- At night 15.05.2012
- Bruch 13.05.2012
- Treue 13.05.2012
- Schenken für Anfänger 08.05.2012
Textoptionen
Those leaves, they keep worrying me too, especially the sick yellow ones, chasing a senseless wind.
There has been another quite talented chap been worried about them, though not quite the same sort:
THE TRAGEDY OF THE LEAVES
I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady's note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, andcient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that's the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world has failed us
both.
- Charles Bukowski
There has been another quite talented chap been worried about them, though not quite the same sort:
THE TRAGEDY OF THE LEAVES
I awakened to dryness and the ferns were dead,
the potted plants yellow as corn;
my woman was gone
and the empty bottles like bled corpses
surrounded me with their uselessness;
the sun was still good, though,
and my landlady's note cracked in fine and
undemanding yellowness; what was needed now
was a good comedian, andcient style, a jester
with jokes upon absurd pain; pain is absurd
because it exists, nothing more;
I shaved carefully with an old razor
the man who had once been young and
said to have genius; but
that's the tragedy of the leaves,
the dead ferns, the dead plants;
and I walked into a dark hall
where the landlady stood
execrating and final,
sending me to hell,
waving her fat, sweaty arms
and screaming
screaming for rent
because the world has failed us
both.
- Charles Bukowski
0
27.01.2008 - 13:39 Uhr
Final