Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl


The Ravens

Over the black corner at midday
The ravens rush with hard cry.
Their shadow streaks past the doe
And sometimes they are seen in sullen rest.

O how they disturb the brown silence
Of a field lying enraptured with itself,
Like a woman weighed down by heavy foreboding,
And sometimes one can hear their nagging

Around a carcass scented out somewhere,
And suddenly their flight bends northward
And disappears like a funeral procession
Into winds that tremble with lust.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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