Yet, a Stirring in Me Seems

Yet, a stirring in me seems like Spring,
mumbles an old man to himself
so mumbles fate as it embraces its own lonesome knees
on a flat stone in a burnt-over field
so mumbles the old man like an echo calling back from across the valley
a sad life’s tale that has come to an end, wrapped in indigent tatters,
with no wife, no family, no neighbors,
no fame, no hope, no work, no birthplace to return to
Once he had an agile wife, gentle family, homey habits and neighbors
he possessed such a modest yet wholesome happiness
On the flat stone in the burnt field
over the shoulders of bombed-out buildings, disfigured
and frightened against the mercury-colored background
far beyond geometric canals disappearing into the twilight rain
he hears children’s songs as poor sick kids begin to sing—
their voices, scattered, cold yet happy, are city lights beginning to blink
Ah, those rose-colored eyes begin to shine in the distance, winking,
but what do they have to do with me now?
Sinking heavy and dark against the sky farther out
the mountain ridges block out and shut down this day of my life
to finally fold it into nothingness in the dusk
this gentle listlessness refusing to leave from under a willow idly swaying in the wind
lingering for a long long time
this solitary feeling, this stirring is like Spring . . .
The field is wildly overgrown with weeds
—the field all around is now withered and in distress
the canal water is putrid, heavy and stagnant
a flock of sparrows takes flight from bricks scattered about crumbling walls
It is evening when every small bird in town,
like a whimsical memory, beats its feeble wings to take off
in a gloomy wintry rain falling like a mist
yet the stirring . . . the stirring has brought this man a memory of some distant past
of a hazy spring day with cherry blossoms in full bloom
Out of his obscure mindscape where scant light illuminates his feelings like
a locust dying of hunger in the sands of a distant desert,
the old man mumbles to himself, with no one around to hear him,
Yet the stirring in me, the stirring seems just like Spring

YET, A STIRRING IN ME SEEMS