Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl


The Heart

The wild heart grew white by the forest;
O dark fear
Of death as the gold
Died in a gray cloud.
November evening.
The crowd of poor women stood
By the bare gate by the slaughterhouse;
Into every basket
Rotten flesh and entrails fall;
Cursed food!

Blue dove of evening
Brought no reconciliation.
Dark trumpeting
Passes through the elm's
Wet golden foliage,
A tattered flag
Smoking with blood
So that in wild gloom
A man listens.
O! you brazen ages
Buried there in the afterglow.

From the dark hallway
The golden figure
Of the youthtress
Stepped surrounded by pale moons,
Autumn court,
Black firs buckled
In the night-storm,
The steep fortress.
O heart
Shimmering across in snowy coolness.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



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