L'amore è eterno, finche dura
Forty is when to build a house,
At least to write a poem.
To build a house you need a lot.
For poetry there is always room,
No matter if you squat
In a mansion or a ruin.
A poet is a nomad sort.
That’s why to let her roam,
Pitch her makeshift tent
In her choice of element,
Though she easily holds court
In the crannies of a home.
A fir standing alone
On a bare boreal height
Dozes, wrapped in a warm
Shroud of ice and snow,
Dreaming of a palm far
In the East, itself pining
Alone in silence at the edge
Of a sun-baked cliff.
After Heinrich Heine
Ein Fichtenbaum steht einsam
Im Norden auf kahler Höh’,
Ihn schläfert; mit weißer Decke
Umhüllen ihn Eis und Schnee.
Er träumt von einer Palme,
Die fern in Morgenland
Einsam und schweigend trauert
Auf brennender Felsenwand.