The immense night sinks by the freezing wall.
O, the thorny hour of grief.
Silverly the candlestick of the lonely one flickers in the dusking room,
Dying away, when that one thinks a darkness
And bends the stony head over the perishable,
Drunk from wine and nightly harmonies.
The ear always follows
The soft lament of the blackbird in the hazel bushes.
Dark rosary hour. Who are you
Lonesome flute,
Forehead, bent over sinister times freezing.
Blood weeps from broken eyesBlaspheming plays with dead snakes.Snow runs through the staring shirtPurple over the black face,That breaks in heavy piecesFrom planets, deceased and strange.A spider appears in the black backgroundLust, your countenance deceased and strange.Blood runs through the staring shirtSnow weeps from broken eyes.
A soft insanity gropes on wallpapers,On windows, reddish beds of geraniums,Daffodils also and more chaste in wasting awayAs alabaster which gleams in the garden.In blue veils India ‘s mornings smile.Their sweet incense scares away the stranger’s worries,Sleepless night by the pond because of Angela.His pain rests hidden in an empty mask,Thoughts which steal away blackly…
Near the spring hill, when the gentle lambOffers itself, the deepest pain endures;O love that rises in the heartLike a round light and endures a soft shape,So that this earthen vessel breaks.
The woods glow, the dark beast,Man: hunter or shepherd.Blood-fish surface in the teeming pond.Under the dome of heaventhe fisherman drifts in his blue boat.The grapes ripen slowly, the corn.When day slumps to a close,Good and Evil are poised.Night falls.The wanderer lifts his heavy eyelids.The sun breaks from the dark ditch.Translated by Eric Plattner………………………………………………………………D ie SonneTäglich…
The priest escorts the dead person.The nights are fulfilled by celebrations of masks.Then tousled crows glide over the village;In books fairy tales are written miraculously.At the window an old man’s hair flutters.Demons go through the ill soul.The well freezes in the courtyard. Decayed stairs fallIn the darkness and a wind blowsThrough old shafts which are…
To the cross. The lights gleam as if covered,And cloudy and as if covered the head of wounds.The incense rises from a golden vesselTo the height, dying songsExhale, and as if afflicted the room dusksUncertainly and sweet. The priest stridesBefore the altar; but, he practices the pious ritesWith tired spirit – a miserable playerBefore bad…
