This is a series of poems of words that do not directly translate into English. I have tried to capture the essence of the word in a poem.
By Thomas Page
A smooth zephyr carries the fallen leaves of trees
Across the dried concrete littered with autumn
Painted shades of orange and yellow
On a tranquil street free of cars
In the early afternoon.
The leaves dance to unheard fiddles
Played in bursts of natural spontaneity
Ebullient and free and chainless from the branches.
The air an old companion
To the trees breathing in and out
The same gases
In a cycle.
The wind carries the leaves
In a twister
Like a friendly bronco
A sight for passing eyes
Too common for pageantry
But not enough to ignore its majesty.
The sound of Echo
Mixed with Persephone
Leaving here for there.