I only know one word for beautiful.
'Schön.'
Can I smell in another language?
Not really…
It comes out something like
"Näse. Ist gut, ja?"
Nose. Is good, yes?
No, I don’t think so.

But it does smell wonderful,
Beautiful.
We’re in a 'Wald',
A forest,
And there’s a heady bouquet
That changes and shifts
With each step,
That belongs
To no one,
To no one thing.
Eyes closed,
Blind to the beauty,
I sense it anyway.
Tall river grass,
A paradox of wet and dry,
Water,
Tiptoeing threw swamp mud,
Parched yellow and red leaves
Litter the flattened reeds
Called a path.

Can I hear in another language?
Certainly.
But understand?
Do I want to?
Do I have to?
Can I hear in my own language?
Sometimes.
In the 'Wald',
Close to the source of the 'Quelle',
The spring,
There’s a crinkle,
A whisper,
A susurrus,
Snap,
Crackle,
Pop
(My ankle when I walk)
A shout, a shriek, a high-pitched giggle
Be quiet!
Please!
Please?
'Langsam, bitte.
Ich verstehe Sie nicht.
Wie bitte?
Wiederholen Sie, bitte?'
I missed something important
Could you, birds,
You, grass,
You, 'Bach',
That little creek,
You, wind,
Go back and start again?
So I can try,
Try to understand?
To catch every other word?

Can I see in another language?
'Natürlich.'
Crack a tired eyelid,
And at the very least,
A blurry slurry
Of abstract shapes and color
Will appear to me.
They take a more solid form,
But are no less surreal.
The path
Runs beside the creek,
Trying to catch up
And catch its breath.
Like the Hare,
The creek is lazy
And confident,
And it meanders,
Snakes,
And bends this way and that,
Doubling back on itself
To thumb its nose
At the poor, panting,
Out of shape trail.
At a junction,
I take the high road,
Rising to a plateau
Of straight-up soaring pines.
The sunlight has a mealy,
Powdery quality to it here,
And it sifts through the trees like flour,
Leaving a fine light-dust on everything.
There’s a thin matted green layer of
Bright green grass
Encroaching on the toes of giants,
Who’ve stood there too long,
Watching it grow.

Can I feel in another language?
No.
You’ll never hear the subtleties of life
in another tongue,
nor the subtleties of pain,
or love,
or fear,
or hate,
or truth.
Nothing,
No nuance,
save for the sound,
and feel,
and smell,
and taste of Death.

'Schade', I only know one word for beautiful.