Fränkische Blumen


© Frank Freimuth


St. John's Cemetery, Nuremberg

Silence, serenity and peace
lay there before my curious eyes
when I, a nosy tourist on my own,
had crossed the entrance made of stone.

This was the first time after forty years
I was to see again this peerless scene
where so much famous folks are sleeping
till someone might them wake from dream.

Once more I saw the roses on the graves,
a bowl of them on every weathered tomb,
and iron epitaphs beneath,
low speaking till the day of doom.

I saw a birch tree at about my age,
its tender green in love with roses' red,
and branches weeping down on to an ancient stone
caressing him who took this final home.

Out of the graveyard's serene grace
there came this vision to my sight:
why stay at my own dark and cheerless place
when here so lovely housing was supplied?

Serenity, which had made me have this dream,
was also what it put to end,
and I was lastly content with me seeing
my footprints in the graveyard's sand.