04-17-2013, 04:39 AM
Revised (first one was too rough for my taste - this one a bit better):
He rose and left his soiled sheets to others for the washing,
while mine are wrapped still tighter by my mottled hands, white and grey.
And beneath his dirty, thread bare sheet the earth is wet in chilly sweat,
which runs between his coarse brown hairs so thickly filled with winter dandruff.
This land seems most like elder man who shakes away impoverished waste,
to soon descend to scanty grave, not to rise again as one afresh and flower graced,
who casts upon the sky his warmth less wrap to fall again as mana,
collecting on the grass, while I stay cold and without faith in this,
the promised and miraculous return.
Original:
He rose and left his soiled sheets to other’s for the washing,
while mine are wrapped still closer by my mottled hands, white and grey.
And beneath the dirty, thread bare sheet the earth is wet in chilly sweat,
which runs between his coarse browns hairs filled with winter dandruff.
This land seems most like an elder man shaking away his impoverished waste,
soon to descend to scanty grave, not to rise again afresh and flower graced,
to cast up his pitiful wrappings through the sky as mana,
falling to collect upon the grass.
I hardly believe it could happen again.
I live in the North America's Moscow (same latitude). Luckily I don't live in some of other Canadian town still further north (poor blighters). And I envy those of you loving the spring rains.
He rose and left his soiled sheets to others for the washing,
while mine are wrapped still tighter by my mottled hands, white and grey.
And beneath his dirty, thread bare sheet the earth is wet in chilly sweat,
which runs between his coarse brown hairs so thickly filled with winter dandruff.
This land seems most like elder man who shakes away impoverished waste,
to soon descend to scanty grave, not to rise again as one afresh and flower graced,
who casts upon the sky his warmth less wrap to fall again as mana,
collecting on the grass, while I stay cold and without faith in this,
the promised and miraculous return.
Original:
He rose and left his soiled sheets to other’s for the washing,
while mine are wrapped still closer by my mottled hands, white and grey.
And beneath the dirty, thread bare sheet the earth is wet in chilly sweat,
which runs between his coarse browns hairs filled with winter dandruff.
This land seems most like an elder man shaking away his impoverished waste,
soon to descend to scanty grave, not to rise again afresh and flower graced,
to cast up his pitiful wrappings through the sky as mana,
falling to collect upon the grass.
I hardly believe it could happen again.
I live in the North America's Moscow (same latitude). Luckily I don't live in some of other Canadian town still further north (poor blighters). And I envy those of you loving the spring rains.