Thunderstorm

It feels as if I am a witness of some battle at its height,
When first it bursts into a rattling crash,
Then flash sharp scars of dazzling light.
As any combat on the Earth, the one above is cruel, harsh.

And here and there, by dozens bombs are made explode -
The field is twinkling in the humid dark.
Strokes follow strokes, the enemies are breaking through the rows,
Triumphant cries and tears of pain are dying in the clatter.

Fiercely the rain is gushing out.
Still stronger - the more the struggle I observe.
Down, down heavy balls are dropping onto ground,
Up jump they, splitting up - the soil splashed with pearls.

The outcome of this eternal fight is easy to predict.
The one decisive blow - the enemy is crushingly defeated.
Furious it's roaring out of its wits,
Not able to repulse - it's shameful retreating.

The clear sky is coloured bright in rich and pure tints.
From rapture captured the star of day is gayer making rounds.
A light cool haze is hanging over seas of fields.
A tender touch of beaming sun is healing broken branches.

Soft tufts of grass are lying trampled into mud.
The leafage, torn away, with gentle stream is moving off
Forth through the air: limpid, fresh and purified.
All saplings, trees are calm, although disturbed
by slowly dripping amber drops.