Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl


Sacred Dusk

Silently a dark deer encounters at the edge
Of the forest;
The evening wind dies softly on the hill,

The blackbird's lament grows mute
And the gentle flutes of autumn
Lie still in the reeds.

On a black cloud
Drunk with poppy you travel
The nocturnal pond,

The starry sky.
Always the lunar voice of the sister resounds
Through the sacred night.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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