Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl


The Thunderstorm

You wild mountains, the eagles'
Lofty mourning.
Golden clouds
Smoke over stony wasteland.
The pines breathe patient stillness,
The black lambs at the abyss,
Where all of a sudden the blueness
Falls strangely mute,
The soft hum of bumblebees.
O green flower -
O silence.

Dreamlike the dark spirits
Of the wild brook shake the heart,
That descends upon the ravines!
White voices
Straying through dreadful courtyards,
Torn terraces,
The fathers' immense resentment, the lament
Of the mothers,
The boy's golden battle cry
And the unborn
Sighing from blind eyes.

O pain, you flaming contemplation
Of the great soul!
Already in the black melee
Of horses and chariots
An eerie rose-colored lightning
Flashes in the sounding spruce.
Magnetic coolness
Floats around this proud head,
Glowing sorrow
Of an angering God.

Fear, you venomous snake,
Black, die in stone!
As wild streams of tears
Fall down,
Mercy of storm,
The snowy peaks all around
Resound in menacing thunders.
Purifies torn night.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



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