One such friend is the author/professor Michael Williams; although he and I have only met twice, I consider him to be a great friend, one that has shown me much about the world through the realms of history, literature and culinary delights. So it was that in his latest post of his blog, Mythical Realism, that he spoke of a poet named France Preseren. Of course I had to look him up and read some of his work. And I did. And I love it.
This is one of the poems I just read and I can still feel the words buzzing on my tongue.
Thank you, Michael.
Mid Wastes of Africa A Wanderer Sped
Mid wastes of Africa a wanderer sped:
He found no pathway; night was now afield.
Through clouds no stealthy glimmer was revealed;
Craving the moon, he made the grass his bed.
The heavens opened, moonbeams then were shed;
He sees where poison-serpents are concealed,
And where their brood of cubs the tigers shield;
He sees the lion upraise his wrathful head.
Thus 'tis the wont of youth perforce to view
What now befalls, so long the veil yet drapes
The future from the road he would pursue.
Clearer has grown the night, and from it gapes
Loathing of life; of pangs and griefs not few,
The deep abyss from which none e'er escapes.