This day for me is always one of reflecting on those that we in the family have lost, and then turning my thoughts to the year ahead; looking ahead is today more challenging perhaps after the year we have experienced, however that makes it even more important a task. So, we all here at Rush Farm are thinking of you all, and wishing us all a much calmer, healthier and more straightforward year ahead.
Some of you no doubt, remember the trauma of that section of a French or Latin examination when it was obligatory to translate a piece either into or out of English. Oddly Latin was probably the easier since the sections chosen in Latin we had already met in translation.
Translating prose is testing, but translating poetry is even more so and a talent to be recognised and applauded.
In October I shared the translation from the German of Erick Kastner’s poem for October. From the same source, a good friend, we are fortunate to have his poem for December.
The year’s grown old. Thin is its hair.
It has not health nor pow‘r.
Knows of its final day, the year.
Knows ev‘n its final hour.
Much has happened. Much been missed.
Both rest under the snow.
White lies the world, by snow been kissed.
A yearning hurts somehow.
Still moon increases. Still melts again.
And nothing stays. Nor goes.
All is illusion. All makes sense.
No use if why one knows.
Once more St. Nich’las trudges off
through all the children’s dreams.
And once more blooms in every house
the golden-greenish tree.
You’ve been that child. You‘ve felt that way,
how graceful trees can shine.
Are acting Santa nowadays
whilst believing in nothing divine.
The year will end at the strike of twelve.
then loud it‘ll ring from the tow‘rs:
„The year does know its final day.
And we do not know ours.“
– from Erich Kästner‘s „The 13 months“