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The
Minoans
Where are they, the young men and maidens of
Crete,
Narrow-waisted, bare-breasted, with heads of
dark curls,
Sharp-featured, slim gymnasts with long, slender
feet,
Where are they, the loose-limbed boys and girls
Who vaulted and sported with bulls and with
death?
This air that we breathe, this air was their
breath;
These mouths were our mouths that laughed and
that
kissed;
This palace of Knossos was built of our dreams;
These ruins are the ruin of our happiness.
The gold of their harvests, their silver seas
Shine on in the sunshine as they have shone,
But of them, of us, what will endure?
A fresco, a tomb, an empty throne? Little more
Yet this beauty will live until time is done.
Their beauty will live until time is done.
(From: The Gate Called Beautiful) |
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Klipkraal óm die Ewigheid
Waar
Skoorsteenberg se skoorsteen staan,
Sal ek my huis weer bou:
Vier mure óm die liefde,
En 'n klipkraal óm die ewigheid,
En 'n skuur óm die hart se volheid:
Óm 'n skeersel wol en 'n koringoes,
Óm dankbaarheid en geloof en trou.
As
die dorsvleël van die Oordeel breek
Op die dorsvloer van die Groot Karoo,
En die laaste goedheid, swaar van saad,
Uitgewan word uit die laaste kwaad,
Sal ek, as die groot dorswind my spaar
En 'n ou man weer soos 'n kind kan glo,
My swerwery in die tyd laat vaar
En my huis onder Kompasberg kom bou.
(Uit: Klipkraal óm die Ewigheid) |
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Haus des Winters
Was
schert uns in den eigenen Wänden
Der Winterwind, der über Trümmerfelde weht?
Faßt sich wer liebt auf den Verlust der Liebe?
Fragt sich ein Kind ob es den Tod versteht?
Richte wer zu rechten hat über den Regen:
Der schlägt den Segnenden ins Gesicht
Und gibt dem Fluchenden seinen Segen.
Gerechte und Ungerechte gehen ein und aus.
Kein Stein der auf dem andern bliebe,
Von diesem Haus der Weisheit und der Lust,
Darin man wohnte mit seiner Liebe.
(Aus: Curriculum Vitae – Gedichte in drei
Sprachen) |
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Winter Home
What
concern of ours, snug in our homes,
Is the winter wind that blows over fields of
rubble?
Do lovers brace themselves for the loss of love?
Do laughing children think of death, of harm or
trouble?
Let
those who would judge condemn the fickle rain
Which strikes the reverent in the face
And gives its blessing to the brutal and
profane.
Both
just and unjust enter in by the same door:
No stone will remain upon another on the floor
Of this home of our joy and wisdom,
When we who have loved live here no more.
(Translation from: Love & Death) |
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