Meeting Benches World art in all forms
DREAM
I think, and I see, or dream
a small village,
a great peace:
inside, a sing of roosters.
And the small village is lost
in a fall of snow.
Within the village, in holiday dress,
a little white house.
Furtive mentions a blonde head,
between the curtains move.
I open the door and the hinges,
screeching, they ask for help faintly.
Then, in the room, a shy and subdued
lavender scent.
THE EVENING
As an indefinable shadows fairy,
evening comes from afar, walking
for snowy fir and tacit.
Then, press it against all windows
its cheeks and cold, silent, listen!
There is silence, then, in every home.
Sit the old people, meditating.
The children, still do not go to their games!
Mothers are as queens.
Slips of the hand at the time maids.
The evening listens anxiously through the glass:
all inside, hear the evening.
DO NOT BE AFRAID, I AM
Do not be afraid, it’s me.
You do not feel that I infringe on you, with all your senses? He put wings, my heart,
and now, white flies around your face.
Do not you see my soul before you,
adorned with silence?
And my prayer of May,
not ripe to your eyes, like a tree?
If you dream, I’m your dream,
but if you’re awake, I am your will;
master of all glory arch my silence starry
on the bizarre town of time.
(Rainer Maria Rilke)
