Quickly, like rainfall
letting itself go, in liquid notes,
then faster, with a watery holler,
and like a shadow sprawls as the sun falls,
the harp played itself with white-pale arms
and sure fingers;
sinewy, coat-hanger-y arms
appearing from a sounding board
purffled with nacre:
plucked out from the strings of its body
airs-the strings thrumming and spinning
out golden notes
into endless Abendrot
swamping the hilly grass-lands
its golden forehead
crowned by a singing Pan's head,
There was nothing to do but hum along
as the harp told its tale
of ruin and soon-to-be....
nothing to do but sing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem