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Selected days! Wake up! Wake up!
The air, pervaded by mysterious song
while Sunday chants along,
invites to drink down a new cup.
Out of the long lamenting night
comes forth from lonely, darkened couch
and by confinement stuck
(a lasting of a hundred years or more
that branched its bareness to all sides)
a breathing brilliant and bright:
the whispers of the turning tide.
Hosanna! Choruses of nature's lore
building, budding out of wrong
right in this birthplace of new light.

Among the reeds at water's edge,
from frozen, concentrated wait
till fish come rising from the sedge
a heron bows to his defenceless bait.
All sophisticated hunt along
the surface stirs not as it locks.
New leaves, new plants, new song!
The crowing victory of cocks
is fanned by ancient mill wings through
the liberated air. We whirl and wind and woo.
The smells of country, land, and dung
bewilder senses lost in glare
intoxicating eye and lung.
Look! Lambkins on the greening hill
so blithe and bonny without care!
The skylark has not woken yet
but in the shrubbery we hear
mingling, interweaving sounds
of mating mates who once had met -
forgetful of the seasons' round
now making for their magical
and very first new year.
A horse runs muscled, young and proud -
restrictions fenced him in.
His jumpy neighing celebrates
a freedom newly found.
Too radical to win, unleashed, unbound
his gallop meets with other gates.
The dead leaves of the hedgerows
still roving and still rattling on
are soon to be replaced by sprout
that spring in constancy bestows:
all clinging will be down and out.
The storks have found high home again
and on the watch rule the extended skies.
In green haze, covering black, old clay
the softened field half-naked lies
and confidence now day by day
in quivering motion outgrows pain.
This spring tide is not living chaste
but in exuberance will it abide
which exorcised last season's waste
with delicate hands of early day.
O! Keep those nightmares, firmly tied,
from pleasures innocent and gay!
Now peace has conquered hearts and earth
while urging them to beat
in mutual love and sharing worth:
dispel all cold and winter heat!
Encouraged to relax and rest, we trust
ambition to this leisured hand.
Yes, yield and sacrifice we must
to promise of this future land.
Dancing, dancing, dancing on!
And everywhere you look
beauties, graces, all have won!
The distant tower, sure, erect,
foretells the fortunes of our book:
'These days are holy and select!'

But from obliterated darkness roam
the helpless voices of despair and stone.

Yet, again, the cuckoo calls:
precisely twelve o'clock.
All nature bursts through every wall,
through obstacle and rock.
There! Just broken from their sheltering eggs,
the teeming ducklings. By their side
the elders with checked swimming legs,
in patient, kind control and tentative subdue.
Be not obscured and do not hide!
Because the worlds now wallow
in jubilant sound and splendid hue -
and in old, brand-new melody
we have to join and follow.
From now on all the skies in blue
receive by invitation
these whirs and chimes of nature's dome.
While called to full creation
we know: we finally come home.

And now the lake lies mirror-still.
In white and silent brotherhood
twenty-two swans together group, until
like water-lilies from their root
the upward will shapes all into unfolding good.

Easter 2003
(From: The Call)

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Geplaatst op: 23-02-2018

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Lilian Muileman
Actief sinds: 13-02-2018

Op dit gedicht ‘WHEN SPRING BEGINS’ van Lilian Muileman zijn auteursrechten van toepassing (©). Het gedicht is onder auteursrechtelijke bescherming geplaatst op Dichters.nl.