GEORG TRAKL

The blue of my eyes is extinguished in this night, the red gold of my heart.

For whoever is lonely there is a tavern.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.

Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.

I do not have easy days at home now and I drift between fear and helplessness in sunny rooms where it is unspeakably cold. Strange shudders of transformation, bodily experienced to the point of vulnerability, visions of mysteries until the certainty of having died, ecstasies to the point of stony petrifaction, and a continuation of dreaming sad dreams.

When we are thirsty, we drink the white waters of the pool, the sweetness of our mournful childhood.

I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.

The near stillness recalls what is forgotten, extinct angels.

Silently, God opens his golden eyes over the place of skulls.

For whoever is lonely there is a tavern.

The guilt of newborns is immense.

Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.

Silently, God opens his golden eyes over the place of skulls.

When we are thirsty, we drink the white waters of the pool, the sweetness of our mournful childhood.

The blue of my eyes is extinguished in this night, the red gold of my heart.

I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.

The near stillness recalls what is forgotten, extinct angels.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.

Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.

I do not have easy days at home now and I drift between fear and helplessness in sunny rooms where it is unspeakably cold. Strange shudders of transformation, bodily experienced to the point of vulnerability, visions of mysteries until the certainty of having died, ecstasies to the point of stony petrifaction, and a continuation of dreaming sad dreams.