Photo by B. P. Miller
Remaining Dreams
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
The graveyard of dreams
rests in cold, dark days.
Frost rises on tree bark,
picks dry pine cones,
encircles me, like prey,
strips leaves from branches,
which tumble down, on withered reeds.
I walk the path,
where sunken crosses stand.
When sun is shining again,
let thoughts drift
past weeping willows,
who bend their heads
into shallow streams.
When remembering, the dead,
their dreams,
we see what remained of them.
Eduard Schmidt-Zorner
The graveyard of dreams
rests in cold, dark days.
Frost rises on tree bark,
picks dry pine cones,
encircles me, like prey,
strips leaves from branches,
which tumble down, on withered reeds.
I walk the path,
where sunken crosses stand.
When sun is shining again,
let thoughts drift
past weeping willows,
who bend their heads
into shallow streams.
When remembering, the dead,
their dreams,
we see what remained of them.