Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl



To Karl Borromaeus Heinrich

Over the white pond
The wild birds have migrated.
In the evening an icy wind blows from our stars.

Over our graves
The broken forehead of night bends.
Under oaks we sway in a silver boat.

Always the white walls of the city resound.
Under arches of thorns,
O my brother, we climb, blind clock-hands, toward midnight.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

Website Copyright © 2008 by Loch Raven Review.

Copyright Notice and Terms of Use: This website contains copyrighted materials, including, but not limited to, text, photographs, and graphics. You may not use, copy, publish, upload, download, post to a bulletin board. or otherwise transmit, distribute, or modify any contents of this website in any way, except that you may download one copy of such contents on any single computer for your own personal non-commercial use, provided you do not alter or remove any copyright, poet, author, or artist attribution, or any other proprietary notices.