Nero CaroZiv Poems

Childhood, mine was nevertheless sweet and sunny childhood,
Though with overbearing clouds of chide, yet with its careless, thoughtless air,
It flourished and bloomed like a tangled wildwood,
Which never got guidance and the faience of a training hand of care.
...

Watch the vaults of a sky in summer evening; spot a falling star
Brush away city broken roar and its air suffocating soot
Tell me where all my past memories and sweet years are
All past and gone memories, leaving no trace nor root
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There will be calm soft rains invoking the smell of the dry ground,
Being wetted, and swallows circling the air with their shimmering sound;
And fat sleek frogs in the pools singing at summer stars night,
And trees burdened with song choirs on boughs high and wide
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Come love and tell all your faults and the still growing flaws in you
Be careful not to skip one; name them over one by one;
I will listen and laugh aloud when you are done,
For I knew them all so well before
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Watch a star that slides above a mountain silhouette and down the sky,
It Blinds the eyes as it shoots by, noiseless and shy
Yet too glaring, too burning and too quick to hold,
Too remote to succumb, too lovely to be owned or bought or sold,
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Oh, she has these fiery slaying eyes as she lifts her head to look at me,
And her ivory smooth hands by the slightest touch can make my hands rejoice,
But to me this lover must be
Courtesy, a decorum with only a voice.
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A sudden, an abrupt, an incidentala street meeting
A one not like the past, that used to be others
Meetings of anticipations for warm love and passionate greeting
This one I would try to avoid, to withdraw, to erase and not to bother
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I am a confirmed atheist, yet teach me my God to bless, to pray
On the mystery of the withered autumn leaf, on the splendor of grass
On the freedom to see, to feel, to breathe,
To know, and gain on the knowledge of the past, to wish, to fail, to live
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In memories of far days I can hear the summer cuckoo's call.
There the beloved trees would never wear the cloak of snow.
There in the far days in the pine's shade I could hear the blessed of all
My childhood, is brought to life again from long ago.
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In that time of year of Indian summer you may see my days old
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, in warm crimson orchard do hang
Upon those boughs which will soon shake shrunk against the pacing cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the summer sweet birds sang.
...