by Walter William Safar
While the wind caresses the golden face of the Texas prairie,
Its proud star in the sky lavishly shines,
Silvering the face of a dreamy night
Which full of unconscious tenderness
Slumbers on the golden palm of the beloved prairie.
There are towers on each step,
Tearing their black claws
Into the heart of the sorrowful night.
Black streams flow along deaf chests
Like an inebriating alcoholic heat.
Totems have long since been replaced by casinos,
Ranches by oil drilling rigs,
There are no more Indian songs of freedom;
No more cowboys whistling in the dark of night;
No more free roaming horses;
No more glittering of horns in silver streams,
Just the seductive humming of black streams of oil,
The silence of dead wells,
And the echo of stock brokers
Who do not care for the accusing scream of the wind.
I, a child of the Texas prairie,
Am carefully listening to the wind's brotherly whisper,
Because there is something of him inside me,
The tall mountains, the azure seas and green valley
That call out for us in a brotherly way.
I, the poet and loner must be on my way now.
I am leaving for the wind's paths with tears in my eyes,
Because it's not easy to leave the beloved prairie
When it silently calls out for you
Like a mother calls out for her son.
While the old cowboy sings a sad ballad,
I am on my way to the unknow, without no turning back,
Because I damn well know
That it calls for me,
And its silent voice cuts ever deeper into my heart,
And so I have to go as soon as possible,
Hoping that someday I may return
To await death on its golden chest.
Last updated May 11, 2012