Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl



The world's misfortune haunts the afternoon.
Shanties flee through small gardens brown and deserted.
Sparks juggle around burnt muck.
Two sleepers stagger homeward, gray and vague.

On the withered meadow a child runs
And plays with his eyes black and smooth.
Gold drips from the bushes bleary and dull.
An old man turns sadly in the wind.

Above my head at nightfall
Saturn again mutely guides a wretched fate.
A tree, a dog scratches behind itself
And God's sky sways black and bare.

Swiftly a small fish glides down the brook;
And quietly the dead friend's hand stirs
And lovingly smoothes forehead and robe.
A light rouses shadows in the rooms.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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