Rübezahl the Keeper of Krkonoše (the Giant Mountains)
I am a personality devised in many colours,
A character composed of light, in every rainbow tint,
I walk bedecked in nature’s clothes, in ever shifting shadow shows,
From morning’s bright cacophony to sunset’s crimson glint,
I have a steely intellect and razor sharp percipience,
A mind of strong philosophy and air of proud pomposity,
Impetuous, capricious too; I’m haughty, vain and crude,
Immodest, fickle, friendly, shrewd — and like the sparrow — free,
I’m ever changing, ever shifting, like those straights of sinking sand,
One minute you can find my ground, the next you cannot stand,
Just like the seasons rolling on and melding to the next,
I am like sand scooped off the land, fast falling from your grasping hand,
My looks themselves take many forms and morph anon to dust,
A giant now, a gnome the next, in variations nigh perplexed,
My coat, a technicolour feast, from violet shades to rust,
Infinite reflections thrown from this day to the next,
I am adept in medicine, in healing and recovery,
I nurse sick animals with care, from desert plain to azure sea,
I know the herbs and healing berries strewn across the land,
The arnica, the lavender, the bluebell vine and pea,
I send the weather as I will, commanding cloud and sky,
Unleashing hail with thunderclap and yellow lightning racing by,
I whisper clouds of fog to view upon the grassy fields,
I send the searing sunlight with the twinkle of my eye,
The storm harp is my instrument, from redwood fashioned well,
I sing with lungs in brazen boom and ding the loud cow bell,
My stepping feet provide the beat and semblance of a drum,
My overtures ignite the world from heaven down to hell!
I manufacture sourdough and make kyselo soup,
In my kotel (a cauldron pot), on fire, in my coop,
When swathing fog arises on the meadow in the morn,
The townsfolk cry, kyselo’s nigh, poured out from in a scoop!
And then the dinner feast begins, with vegetables and fruit,
The heady gift of Rübezahl, the happy woodwose brute,
I wonder if he’ll sit with us, here at the wooden table?
Arrayed with beer and festive cheer, and gently playing flute…
AD Lovkis, 09/06/25
adamdaniel 