dream of Latgale

Where to Begin sky? Where sili ended? -
Everything has now begun silver flashes. . .
Where bloom blue lakes, blue-flowering flax,
sērst jāju memory palsajā horse.

My Latgale - sērdiene expensive,
protects you even mounds of Grey?
- Where to begin lakes? Where ends the line?
What struck me she would come, greeted the first? -

There earth and altar incense breathes,
flower crosses are falling, roads and houses.
Stars reflecting off the lake cord -
God is talking to the people there. . .

Reverberant fuddle apmaldās time there
noreibst and allow the current to carry it.
Latgale clear water drinking,
I am the eternal prisoner of me.

Short had my dream strange night -
awake, I feel better and cleaner.
My Latgale - youthful land
Another skurbina me your memories of incense.

/ Valdis Krāslavietis author of the poem /

last tram

When the last tram went,
I carried curled rails
And put it in the sidelines.
And track site
Every night of pine
And foxes dig burrows.

In the morning I have piles of rails
And go to work,
No they do not do in my place
So condemn the harsh gaze,
If the tram instead of
Stop godasardze stand wasps.
I am waiting for the evening,
Once again the rail saritināšu.

I nekāpšu pine
And ore neuzrunāšu wasps.

/ Poem writer Aija Vikmane /

Riga

Oh, this town! Songs and laurels
Her shame and beauty cover.
Again I went through it like a dream
Spotted at night when the lights is eager.

I saw signs placed in the dark:
Please, please, here - items which are worth!
The dark face of a beautiful fairy tale,
Miss you-go, smiling - buy!

Proud soldiers marching stroke,
Laughed flute, bass and groaned;
Ragged boy, hiding at night,
Silently as the bat flew low.

White girl into the batter
Across the head, where music is playing,
And as huge spider webs
People I bump disappeared.

/ Poem author John northerners /

Latvian summer

Yellow linden flower bee buzzes,
the cane (this side of the water lilies)
sitting in the rafters.

I sleep and are looking to the sky;
around the sun
and God.

/ Poem writer Richard Rigan /

Here we are

. . . pulled through the era of our time
and all of us along.
Did not help pushing
homeland, alien,
let alone who.

Here we are,
they pulled through -
the hole
which do not have time to tinker,
which is currently the starting leg hole.
Nothing to complain about hard times!


/ Poem author John Viesiens /

We are thrown into the middle of an era
as a small change to a low value.
None of us do not require
neither authorized nor advice.

What we count the cardiac,
one off against
and then throw back to the stream changes.

By a wide river swimming
try to feel your self-worth.

/ Poem author Voldemars Aven /

Latvia

The same sacred
You do not forget:
or get up in the sky,
or dive into the depths of the sea,

or friends
divide our joy,
alone or Meet
with the enemy -
You\'re in Latvia!

/ Ojars The German author of the poem /

Where?

Where trees grow visstaltākie?
Where the whitest clouds?
Where the birds are singing the loudest?
The grass thrives dwellers?
Homeland.

Where the sources of the clearest?
Where daw wisest?
Where cats Naud favorite?
Where the fish are flying most deeply?
Homeland.

Where the hell jumps visellīgāk?
Where blueberries vismellīgāk?
Where meadows bloom viskošāk?
Where in the world the most secure?
Homeland.
Their own people.

/ Peters, author of the poem Bruveris /

Dzimtais fireplace

Native fireplace in the sky are.
In order to come home
we never doors,

but the book covers
brīvojam and space itself,
where the home country to be.

The snail can not learn,
the home is a refuge for us,
but we will retreat your home.

/ Poem author Mara Zalite /

Sapņi

Dreams go Daugava.
They have no memory of dreams.
Twice in the same long
flowing to the sea.

Invocation browse the slope in the rain, my fire, which. Buries over ancestral bones, my conscience, buries. Where to go my people, my sick go there. Hold on heaven and earth, my fate, Hold on. / Ojars The German author of the poem /

Wells

My Latvian farms more wells -
green stone and old concrete ring,
wooden bucket on the winch side,
Blue nettle on marginal trails
and grandfather planted birch trees nearby.

They are smart, they are legends wells -
do not forget the old and wise,
smelsim water - deep drilling prize
the blood sadzeļ cool ants
and clears the head. . .

/ Poem writer John Peters /

We live in the north

We live in the north.
Birch thrives here nearly a month long.
Winter sun is not above the crooked pine,
and so we see patterned - through the branches.

Around the same time as St. John\'s no longer night.
But on the bright swamps flowing
long-dead grandfather reindeer cold breath,
Ducks and take their children to swim in icy water,
the dark blue hills behind the sun -
beneath the polar star mozdamās -
lazily ventilated cranberry pink sheets.

Normally, the city bears walk the streets of ice,
but we have the pleasure of nettle colony in the park,
and through the forest trails can wander barefoot
if too afraid of odzēm and ridged stones,
who owns this land.

It is rocky.

But it is also a slider across the ice age glacier:
therefore it is a push and jostle,
and many are no longer in their old place.
We are reverent when it comes to the ices,
and yearn for the sun to melt them.
They are longing to be fulfilled only partially.
So we have something in the blood of dandelion juice:
because that day is far and long,
when the sun
we glow of pienenēm ditches,
not from the sky.

Therefore,
runādami
on this land with hair or almost polar Ledo,
nemētājieties with stones -

Stones of the same here in Ghana.

/ Poem author Andrew Irbe /

Latvians

On the globe, under the sun
us three and a half billion. They
Latvian only one and half million. This is how
half drop in the ocean

What may be the song of the year and a half drop
the sun? And yet -

on the globe, under the sun
is the nation - Latvians
on the globe, under the sun
a popular song about the sun:

Rise, the sun, early morning,
Contain an entrance time in the evening,
Sildīdama of the scroll,
Žēlodama evening.

/ Poem author Maris busy /

Confession

Over Arāja Arum
sounds cīruļbalss over
Arum gulls sounding board
voice, but do not know
the voices that together
tied them into a single
node -
Russians.

/ Poem writer Vytautas Ludens /