Donder-thunder-donner-rain
Donder-thunder-donner-rain:
The clouds grow dark; they grumble, crash;
the tongues of storm, those sparks of light,
charge recklessly across the clouds,
bolts on black that break the night,
form cracks and creases in the mind,
each strike a clarity-imposing fire.
Winds hurl the world with the world's own force,
rush and roar, with wildness inspire
the rain that pours, the thought that streams.
No shield can ward these flooding showers,
the endless drops that drip from heaven,
each drop a wish upon the streets.
Those wishes wash my words away.
The rain-swept world is drenched in silence.
The clouds alone still have their say:
Donder-thunder-donner-rain.
Fan-blades
Fan-blades blur translucent,
so swiftly do they spin;
even so the innocent
have a swifter rate of sin.
Hope
Hope is a strange thing.
It leaps from the skies,
softly sings,
then, phoenix-like, dies.
