Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl



September evening; sadly the shepherds' dark calls sound
Through the dusking village; fire sprays in the smithy.
Enormously, a black horse rears up; the hyacinthine locks of the maid
Snatch after the ferver of its crimson nostrils.
Softly, the cry of the doe freezes at the edge of the forest
And the yellow flowers of autumn
Bend speechless over the blue countenance of the pond.
In red flame a tree burned; with dark faces the bats flutter up.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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