Georg Trakl

Georg Trakl

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

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There is a stubble field on which a black rain falls
There is a tree which, brown, stands lonely here
There is a hissing wind which haunts deserted huts—-How sad this evening
Past the village
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The black snow runs down from the rooftops;
A red finger dips into your brow;
Blue snow flakes sink into the empty room,
They are a lovers’ dying mirrors
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At evening the autumn woodlands
With deadly weapons
Over the golden
And lakes of blue, the
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Sleep and death, the dusky
Around this head swoop all night long;
Eternity’s icy
Would swallow the golden
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It is a light, that the wind has extinguished
It is a pub on the heath, that a drunk departs in the afternoon
It is a vineyard, charred and black with holes full of spiders
It is a space, that they have white-limed with milk
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In the spirit’s solitary
It is lovely to walk in the
Along the yellow walls of summer
Quietly whisper the steps in the grass; yet always
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Like the wild organs of the winter
Is the people gloomy rage,
The purple billow of
Of stars leaf-stripped
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