Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl



I sing you wild fissure,
Mountains looming
In the night storm;
You grey towers
Overflowing with hellish grimaces,
Fiery beasts,
Rough ferns, spruces,
Crystal flowers.
Unending agony,
Which makes you, gentle spirit,
Hunt down God
Sighing in the waterfall,
In billowing pines.

The fires of the nations
Blaze golden all around.
Over blackish cliffs
Drunk with death,
The glowing wind-bride plummets,
The blue wave
Of the glacier,
And the bell in the valley
Peals mightily:
Flames, curses
And the dark
Games of lust,
A petrified head
Storms heaven.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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