Landscape by Stefan Zweig

translated by William Ruleman (April 2014)

 

Night. And seeds, in slumber, breathe

Hot and sense-benumbing scents,

And silver mists arise and seethe:

Laments of an air still, sultry, tense.

 

Far off, the glare of a thunderstorm

Threatens on the horizon. Soon . . .

Clouds circle birds in a frightened swarm,

Joined by a glowing sallow moon.

 

And thunder groans as if in pain,

Beckons to the expectant land,

And strokes ripe, rustling ears of grain

With sudden, ominous, silencing hand.

 

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