By Georg Trakl
A wind is blowing! The green lights
Sing extinguished – large and satiated
The moon fulfils the high hall,
Where no more celebrations sound through.
The ancestral portraits quietly smile
And far-off – their last shadow fell,
The room is sultry with putrefaction,
Arround which ravens mutely move in circles.
A lost sense of past times
Looks from the stony masks,
Pain distorted and empty of existence
Mourning in abandonments.
Sick smells of sunken gardens
Quietly caress the decay –
Like the echo of sobbing words
Quivering over open crypts.
Copyright © by the owner.