I wish you recovery, dear Edda, and sending here my

blessings for you!

Thank you, for your poems they are such near to lives

from human and

animals, from memories and wishes…




by Edda Hackl

 An Austrian mountain lodge in 1944,

Safe from air-raids, it was thought:


One day, a black man

is brought in,

bruised, scratched, dirty,

not seriously hurt –

parachuted from a downed plane

into the dense pine-forest.

He stands,

exposed to the stares

of a dozen people.

He smiles,

pulls out his iron ration,

reaches out to us,

offers it to us,

turning to each –

and each one refuses the offer,

fearful, that it might be poisoned

(we had been “instructed”),

tempting though the treats look

to ever-hungry children.

Policemen come and lead him away,

good-naturedly they say,

“Ashanti, let’sgo”


Years later I wondered,

what this man must have thought.

Did he understand

why his peace offering

had not been accepted?

Did he think it was

the color of his skin

that kept us from doing so?

How I wished to be able to tell him

that the prejudice he encountered,

wasn’t the kind experience had taught him.

How I wished I had known to accept

and touch his outstretched hand.



(For whom the bell tolls?

Be sure, it tolls for me, the and you!)


Over hundred of years there has changed nothing

Which thought of the men has never been thought?

I guess, none.



John Donne


No man is an Iland, intire of itselfe; every man

is a peece of the Continent, a part of the maine;

if a Clod bee washed away by the Sea, Europe

is the lesse, as well as if a Promontorie were, as

well as if a Manor of thy friends or of thine

owne were; any mans death diminishes me,

because I am involved in Mankinde

And therefore never send to know for who

the bell tolls; It tolls for thee.



Our behaviour in this world

Give me always to think ….

At least, this lines have been written

in the years of  1572 and 1631


John Donne

(T.A. 274, 130, teilw. 140)


…Did that soul a good way towards heaven direct

where is this mankind now? who lives to ages,

fit to be made Methusalem his page?

Wheter a true made clock run right, or lie.

Old gansires talk of yesterday  with sorrow

and for our children we reserve tomorrow

So short is life, that every peasant strives

in a torn house, or field, to have three lives.

And as in lasting, so in length is man

contracted to an inch, who was a span

For had a man at first in forests strayed

or shipwrecked in the sea, one would have

laid a wager, that an elephant or whale

that met him, would not hastily assail

a thing so equal to him:

now alas, the fairies and the pygmies well

may pass as credible; mankind decays so soon,

We’are scarce our fathers’ shadows cast at noon.

(Only to think about…)




by Edda Hackl


There is no

Special time

To silently

Sit in prayer,

But during the passing

Of the day

There are these

Moments of

Taking in

Deep breaths of

Fresh, clean, air,

Fragrant with

The smells of grass,

Cut wood and pine;

Of resting

The gaze

On lush,

Bright-green meadows

And the darker

Pine trees


For the sky,

Or of sitting

By clear brooks,

Limpid water

Splashing by,


These times

Are prayer,

I don’t feel

The lack

Of form or plan.

I’m just

Present in

What is given.



I carry your heart with me


E. E. Cummings


I carry your heart with me (I carry it in
my heart)

I am never without it (anywhere
I go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
I fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)

I want no world (for beautiful you are my  world, my true)
And it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
And whatever a sun will always sing is you

Here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)



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