In springtime, the only pretty ring time...

Top o' the mornin' my fellow stripling. Salutations from your merryandrew Gabriel (huh? sounds confusing, begad). There's a gloomy day out in the overcast firmament of Adelaide, so I might as well spend some time scribbling these words, forwarded to whom it may concern.

So the desired format of my blog entries differ quite a bit from the common nonchalant daily-routine diaries. Who actually cares about the existance of a prepubescent scratching his pimples? I do not, and that's positive. "What for" is this? Well, I don't know it myself. Agen of inwit, I hope not. But I'll strive, myself, for the toilsome summit of maybe inspiring someone, not only to improve their English, but also to develope themselves as thinking persons.

Since this is nothing but our first contact, I thought it would be... maybe not a brainchild, but definitely something much more productive, to introduce a shakespearean song from one of his comely comedy plays called "Twelth Night" (the twelth night coincides with the night of the Epiphany). The "fool" (or the buffoon, the jestering urchin), sings to two knights a song about pursuing love while you're still a blooming flower. "Beatus ille"... read the long-forgotten Italian renacentist poems by Petrarca (among others).

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O mistress mine, where are you roaming?
O stay and hear, your true love's coming
O stay and hear, your true love's coming
That can sing both high and low
Trip no further, my pretty sweeting
Journey's end in lover's meeting
Every wise man's son doth know
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter
What is love? 'Tis not hereafter
Present mirth hath present laughter
Present mirth hath present laughter
What's to find is still unsure
In delay, there lies no plenty
Then come and kiss me, sweet and twenty
Youth's a stuff will not endure.

(sung by Deller Consort in the video)

And now, my weak attempt of a translation. The "trip" / "journey" pun is hard to translate, so do please be forgiving.

Oh, señora mía, ¿por dónde deambulas?
Oh ,señora mía ¿por dónde deambulas?
Oh, aguarda y escucha: tu amor verdadero ya llega
Oh, aguarda y escucha: tu amor verdadero ya llega
Que canta tanto alto como bajo
No le des más vueltas, mi hermosa querida
La búsqueda termina en el encuentro de los amantes
Todo hijo de hombre sabio da fe de ello.
Qué es el amor? No está en el más allá
Qué es el amor? No está en el más allá
La alegría del presente contiene las risas presentes
La alegría del presente contiene las risas presentes
Qué nos deparará el futuro es todavía incierto
En la demora, no quedan demasiados
Así que ven y bésame, dulce y veinteañero
La juventud es algo que no durará

Hope you liked it. My intentions are not of a braggart fulled with self-conceit, but of a bashful person that might find new turf to raise his twigs. But you won't plant anything in a tundra or a bog. You need an everlasting evergreen ever-ever meadow to arise other people's interest (now in languor due to the pillage of PP).The twigs will  mayhap become in the future acres, oaks. Or willows, such as me. Chinese depict the maturity as the ripening process of a tree (to flourish, to bloom means "the twig developing into a tree slowly, in a familiar environment, as a house or a school" It could be that this blog became one day, our Heimat, our home, where we will flourish slowly, never straightaway... We've no hurry, right?). It's not of my invention. :)

May you find peace these days, for I found mine, in an outlandish Ausland (outland) called Australia.