Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl



Bluish shadows. O you dark eyes
That gaze long at me gliding past.
Guitar chords softly accompany autumn
In the garden, dissolved in brown lyes.
Nymph-like hands prepare
The earnest somberness of death, decayed lips
Suck at red breasts and in black lyes
The moist curls of the sun-youth glide.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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