When Orpheus silverly strokes the lyre,
Lamenting the dead in the evening garden,
Who are you resting under tall trees?
The lament rustles the autumnal reeds,
The blue pond,
Dying away under greening trees
And following the shadow of the sister;
Of a wild race
From which the day rushes away on golden wheels.
Under gloomy firs
Two wolves mixed their blood
In stony embrace; a golden shape,
The cloud disappeared above the footbridge,
Patience and silence of childhood.
Again by the Triton pond
The delicate corpse confronts
Slumbering in his hyacinthine hair.
That the cool head would finally burst!
Because always a blue deer follows,
An eyeing shape under dusking trees,
The soft insanity
Of these darker paths,
Waking and moved by nocturnal harmonies;
Or the string-play resounded
Full of dark ecstasy
At the cool feet of the penitent woman
In the stony city.
© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt