time for a poem

Post photo: Enjoying coffee | © Pixabay

Poems, no matter what language they are written in, are not really a hit here on this weblog. The weblog readers should have gotten used to the fact that I let my little passion have its say here from time to time.

And many are also very happy that I decided not to present my own works; except for one — my last poem — I have committed all my poems to oblivion.

But they still exist, namely poems that are better not to be forgotten, but kept in good memory for as long as possible. One such poem is from George Heym and bears the title "Spring". Heim wrote it in 1911, less than three years before the start of the First World War, at a time when, for the more sensitive minds, there were already premonitions of what was to come.

George Heym was born on October 30, 1887 and is considered one of the first representatives of early Expressionism. He drowned in 1912 trying to save a friend.

Spring

The winds bring a black evening.
The paths tremble with the cold trees
And in the empty spaces later wasteland
The clouds are rolling on the horizons.

The wind and storm is eternal in the expanse,
Only sparsely that a sower already treads
The far country, and heavy sows the seed,
For whom no fruit rejoices in dead summers.

But the forests must break apart
Lifted to the wind with gray tops,
The sourceless, in the long weakness
And the blood no longer rises in its branches.

March is sad. And the days change
Full of light and dark on the mute earth.
But the rivers and the mountains are covered
The Rain Shield. And everything is covered.

But the birds will come no more.
The reeds and their banks will remain empty,
And big boats in the summer calm
Drift dead shadows in green hills.

George Heym, 1911