The Poet Among Us

 It has been stormy these last few days. Here, the word "stormy" doesn't seem to have anything to do with wet - just wind.  Last night, it played in my dreams.  The noise of it and the one brass bell on the terrace made it known how windy it was. After breakfast, we took a walk and it was still so very windy. And my dear Werner surprised me once again with a poem.  Walking down the road, he recited: 

Weltende

Dem Bürger fliegt vom spitzen Kopf der Hut,
In allen Lüften hallt es wie Geschrei,
Dachdecker stürzen ab und gehn entzwei.
Und an den Küsten – liest man – steigt die Flut.

Der Sturm ist da, die wilden Meere hupfen
An Land, um dicke Dämme zu zerdrücken.
Die meisten Menschen haben einen Schnupfen.
Die Eisenbahnen fallen von den Brücken.

Here's a bad translation:

                    From pointed pates hats fly into the blue,
                    All winds resound as so with muffled cries.
                    Steeplejacks fall from roofs and break in two,
                    And on the coasts—we read —the tides rise high.

                    The storm is here, the seas run wild and skip
                    On land, crushing thick bulwarks there.
                    Most people have a cold, their noses drip.
                    Trains tumble from the bridges everywhere.

Trains were diverted and stopped.  Autobahns were blocked.  And here in Vegesack, the tidal Weser rose over the banks and made everything along the river really, really wet! 

I remember that I forget to be amazed by these everyday events.  I need to remember to take photos.  And I need to listen to Werner reciting poems.