Poetry       Prose       Letters

Georg Trakl



There's no one in the house. Autumn in rooms;
Moon-bright sonata
And the awakening at the edge of the dusking forest.

You always imagine the white countenance of man
Far from the turmoil of time;
Over a dreamer green branches bend with pleasure,

Cross and evening;
With purple arms the resounding one is embraced by his star
Climbing up to unoccupied windows.

Thus the stranger trembles in darkness
As he softly lifts the eyelids over a human shape
Far away; the silver voice of the wind in the hallway.


© Jim Doss & Werner Schmitt



Poetry       Prose       Letters

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