Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl


In Winter

The acre shines white and cold.
The sky is lonely and immense.
Jackdaws circle over the pond
And hunters climb down from the forest.

A silence dwells in black treetops.
Firelight flits from the huts.
Sometimes a sleigh rings far away
And slowly the gray moon rises.

Gently a deer bleeds to death at the field's edge
And ravens splash in bloody gutters.
The reeds tremble yellow and upraised.
Frost, smoke, a step in the empty grove.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



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