Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl



At evening the cuckoo's lament
Grows silent in the forest.
The corn bends deeper,
The red poppy.

Black storm threatens
From over the hill.
The cricket's ancient song
Dies off in the field.

The leaves of the chestnut
No longer move.
Your gown rustles
On the spiral stair.

Silently in the dark room
The candle glows;
A silver hand
Extinguished it;

Wind lull, starless night.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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