The newborn sunrise

The shimmering bubble

Tenuously breaks from between the crags

of Mt Pitri

And plunges into the mirrored ocean of sky

So small, so fragile.

Unchecked, the gentle glow

With time throws back its innocent form

To impose its radiant tyranny

On the mountains that gave it birth.

With lazy sun overhead

And cool waters lapping around their ankles

The children fling lines

into the Quemquemtreu

Unaware that the stones their toes grasp

Are products of the years of

Nature's powerful forces.

Rains and thunder.

Nitrate smells

and rusty nails.

The churning clay

of grey trails

meandering through grey woods

reflecting the grey sky.

A Stroll

 Oh, how grand is a stroll

 Over hill, over knoll,

 Where the ceiling o’erhead is the sky.

 To skip along gleely,

 Unhindered, to freely

 Ascend where the eagles can’t fly.

 The inward enlightened,

 All fears have been frightened

 And chased by the light of the sun.

 The air’s circulation

 Begets contemplation

 And causes the spirit to run.

 ‘Tis mental digestion

 That lightens depression

 And clears all the storm clouds away.

 Very grand is a stroll

 Over hill, over knoll,

 Like the light of the brightness of day.

Beautiful it is at morning

Where the starkest shadows fall,

And the golden orb arises,

Sounding hope with ev'ry call;

When the brush is dabbed with umber,

And the clouds are under-lit,

Earth in groans and quiet whispers

So awakens bit by bit.

Beautiful it is at noonday

When the sweat drops to the ground,

Where the steady chant of labor

Mixes with the hammer's sound;

Warm, the blazing sun caresses,

For the work which makes us strong

And the heavy weight of burden

Mix to lift a valiant song.

Beautiful it is at evening

With the western sky aglow

When the arms of even's shadows

Round the weary earth would throw,

And the stars are embers scattered,

For the flames have died away;

So the spread of night envelopes

'Til the dawn of endless day.

Waterfall

Waterfall

(or upon considering those who, young and vigorous, grow old and die)

Cascada serena,

Cautiva de pena

y meláncolia,

Distante y fría,

Caudal de pureza

cristal de tristeza.

Such is this ephemeral veil that,

crashing from the mountain,

roars and mingles foam

like silver rings and,

bound in nature’s secret tome,

still speaks, though mute,

from hidden shelves of memory’s room.

These are the rivulets that flow,

embracing rocks which scarce impede

the water’s constant progress to the sea,

where it, too, shall peacefully fold

forever into the waves.