Georg Trakl Quotes

Your body is a hyacinth, Into which a monk dips his waxy fingers. Our silence is a black cavern, From which a soft animal steps at times And slowly lowers heavy eyelids. On your temples black dew drips, The last gold of expired stars

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.

Cold metal walks across my forehead, spiders search for my heart. It is a light that goes out in my mouth...

A world without fairy tales and myths would be as drab as life without music

In den einsamen Stunden des Geistes ist es schön in der Sonne zu gehn, an den gelben Mauern des Sommers hin

Vom Schatten eines Hauchs geboren Wir wandeln in Verlassenheit Und sind im Ewigen verloren, Gleich Opfern unwissend, wozu sie geweiht.

Under ancient cypress trees, weeping dreams are harvested from sleep.

In an old family album Ever again you return, Melancholy, O meekness of the solitary soul. A golden day glows and expires. Humbly the patient man surrenders to pain Ringing with melodious sound and soft madness. Look! There's the twilight. Night returns once more and a mortal thing laments And another suffers in sympathy. Shuddering under autumn stars Yearly the head is bowed deeper. -Georg Trakl (1887-1914)

A whore who with icy shudders gives birth to a small dead child.

At the Moor Wanderer in the black wind; quietly the dry reeds whisper In the stillness of the moor. In the gray sky A flock of wild birds follows; Slanting over gloomy waters. Turmoil. In decayed hut The spirit of putrescence flutters with black wings. Crippled birches in the autumn wind. Evening in deserted tavern. The way home is scented all around By the soft gloom of grazing herds; Apparition of the night; toads plunge from brown waters.

المسْني أيها الموت؛ أنا الآن رجلٌ مكتمل

أيها المسافر ادخل بدَعةٍ، الألم حجّر العتبة. هنا فى الضوء الخالص، يشعّ على الطاولة، خبزٌ ونبيذ.

The thrush called strangeness into the sunset.

Our silence is a black cavern.

Purple cloud covered his head so that he silently attacked his own blood and likeness, a lunar countenance; stonily sank away into emptiness, when in a broken mirror a dying youth, the sister, appeared; the night engulfed the cursed race.

قلبي في المساء عندما يأتي المساء تسمع صيحات الخفافيش. حصانان أسودان مقيدان في المرعى، القيقب الأحمر يحدث حفيفاً، الشخص الذي يمشي على طول الطريق يرى أمامه حانة صغيرة. البندق والخمر الجديدة لهما طعم لذيذ، لذيذ: ترنح السكران في الغابة الداجية. أجراس القرية، مؤلم سماعها، يتردد صداها عبر أغصان التنوب السوداء، ندىً يتشكل على الوجه

The dead paint a sneering silence on the walls With their white hands.

Georg Trakl cadde in guerra. Di sua mano. Sulla terra era solo. A me era caro. (Else Lasker-Schüler)

Spiders seek my heart. There is a light that dies in my mouth. At night I found myself upon a heath, Thick with filth and stardust. In the hazel copse Crystal angels have chimed again.

It is a stubble field, where a black rain is falling. It is a brown tree, that stands alone. It is a hissing wind, that encircles empty houses. How melancholy the evening is. A while later, The soft orphan garners the sparse ears of corn. Her eyes graze, round and golden, in the twilight And her womb awaits the heavenly bridegroom. On the way home The shepherd found the sweet body Decayed in a bush of thorns. I am a shadow far from darkening villages. I drank the silence of God Out of the stream in the trees. Cold metal walks on my forehead. Spiders search for my heart. It is a light that goes out in my mouth. At night, I found myself on a pasture, Covered with rubbish and the dust of stars. In a hazel thicket Angels of crystal rang out once more.

. الشمس تشرق الشمس الذهبية كل يوم على التلة. الأيكة جميلة، والحيوانات المتوحشة كذلك، أيضا الرجل: صيادا كان أو مزارعا. السمك الأحمر يقفز في البركة الخضراء. تحت قبة السماء صياد السمك يسافر برفق في زورقه الأزرق الصغير. البذرة، عناقيد العنب، تنضج على مهل. وعندما يصل اليوم الهادئ إلى نهايته، تكون تهيئة كل من الخير والشر قد تمت. وبحلول الليل، دون أدنى شك يرفع المسافر جفنيه الثقيلين، الشمس تهرب من الوديان الكئيبة.

حداد/جورج تراكل نسور الظلام، النوم والموت، لا يكفون عن الحفيف طوال الليل حول رأسي: تمثال الرجل الذهبي ابتلعته موجة الجليد الأبدية. على الصخور المرعبة تكسرت بقايا المرجان إلى شظايا، وصوت الظلام ينعى فوق البحر. أختا في يأسي العاصف انظر، مركب متداع يغرق تحت النجوم، التي يتلاشى صوتها في وجه الليل.

The dark eagles, sleep and death, Rustle all night around my head: The golden statue of man Is swallowed by the icy comber Of eternity. On the frightening reef The purple remains go to pieces, And the dark voice mourns Over the sea. Sister in my wild despair Look, a precarious skiff is sinking Under the stars, The face of night whose voice is fading.

MARCELLUS: But look, Agathon, what strange dark light is glowing amongst the clouds. You would think a sea of flame is blazing behind the clouds. A divine fire! And the sky is like a blue bell. It's as if one can hear it tolling in deep, solemn tones. You might even suspect that up there above us, in unattainable heights, something is taking place of which we shall never know. But at times we can sense it, when that vast silence has settled over the earth. And yet! All this is very confusing. The gods have to pose insoluble riddles for us humans. And the earth does not rescue us from the cunning of the gods; for it too is full of things that confound the senses. Both things and humans confuse me. True enough! Things are very taciturn! And the human soul won't yield up its riddles. You ask and it keeps silent. AGATHON: Let's live and not ask questions. Life is full of beauty.

On silver soles I climbed down the thorny stairs, and I walked into the white-washed room. A light burned there silently, and without speaking I wrapped my head in purple linen; and the earth threw out a childlike body, a creature of the moon, that slowly stepped out of the darkness of my shadow, with broken arms, stony waterfalls sank away, fluffy snow

On silver soles, earlier lives glide by And the shadows of the damned decline towards the sighing waters. In his grave, the white magician plays with his serpents.

الظلام ممتلىء بهمس الاجوبة على اسئلة الليل

Not your dark poisons again, White sleep! This fantastically strange garden Of trees in deepening twilight Fills up with serpents, nightmoths, Spiders, bats. Approaching stranger! Your abandoned shadow In the red of evening Is a dark pirate ship Of the salty oceans of confusion. White birds from the outskirts of the night Flutter out over the shuddering cities Of steel.

Grodek في المساء غابة الخريف ملآى بأصوات أسلحة الموت، الحقول الذهبية والبحيرات الزرقاء، عبر الشمس المظلمة التي تغرب، الليل يجمع فيه مجندون يحتضرون، الحيوانات تصرخ بأفواهها المنفجرة. حتى الغيمة حمراء، حيث الله غاضب، الدم المراق نفسه وصل إلى بيته، بصمت يحشد، رباطة جأش مارس في قيعان الصفصاف، كل الطرقات تمتد إلى القبر الأسود. تحت الأغصان الذهبية في الليل والنجوم أخت الظلال تترنح عبر الأيكة المنكمشة، لتحيي أرواح الأبطال، برؤوسهم المدماة، ومن القصب أصوات مزامير الخريف الكئيبة تعلو. أيتها المصيبة الأبية! مذبحك البرونزي، شعلة الروح الملتهبة لقمت اليوم بالمزيد من، أحفاد مقبلون

Under the trimmed willows, where brown children are playing And leaves tumbling, the trumpets blow. A quaking of cemeteries. Banners of scarlet rattle through a sadness of maple trees, Riders along rye-fields, empty mills. Or shepherds sing during the night, and stags step delicately Into the circle of their fire, the grove’s sorrow immensely old, Dancing, they loom up from one black wall; Banners of scarlet, laughter, insanity, trumpets

Shepherds buried the sun in the naked forest. With a net of hair A fisherman hauled the moon from the icy pond. The pale man dwells In a blue crystal, his cheek at rest against his stars, Or he bows his head in crimson sleep. But the black flight of birds always touches The watcher, the holiness of blue flowers; The nearby silence thinks forgotten things, extinguished angels. Again the brow turns night in moonlit stone; A radiant youth, The sister appears in autumn and black putrefaction.

passionate reader of books in German, her favorites to date include Stiller by Max Frisch, Die Wand by Marlen Haushofer, Die Große Liebe by Hans-Josef Ortheil, Selina by Walter Kappacher, Der verschlossene Garten by Undine Gruenter, as well as the poetry of Heinrich Heine, Georg Trakl, Ingeborg Bachmann, and, of course, Rainer Maria Rilke. Gunilla currently divides her time between the Baltic Sea and the Italian Alps, where she enjoys spending time with her family, her boyfriend and her red Somali cat, Polzerino.

At evening the autumnal forests resound With deadly weapons, the golden plains And blue lakes, above them the sun Rolls more darkly by; night enfolds The dying warriors, the wild lament Of their broken mouths. But in the grassy vale the spilled blood, Red clouds in which an angry god lives, Gathers softly, lunar coldness; All roads lead to black decay. Beneath the golden boughs of night and stars The sister’s shadow reels through the silent grove To greet the ghosts of heroes, their bleeding heads; And the dark flutes of autumn sound softly in the reeds. O prouder sorrow! you brazen altars Today an immense anguish feeds the mind’s hot flame, The unborn descendants.

C'è un battello vuoto, che a sera scende giù lungo il canale. Nell'oscurità del vecchio asilo si sfanno relitti umani. Gli orfani morti giacciono lungo il muro del giardino. Da grigie stanze escono angeli con le ali macchiate di fango. Vermi gocciano dai loro ingialliti cigli. La piazza dinnanzi alla chiesa è oscura e silenziosa, come nei giorni dell'infanzia. Su argentee suole scivolano passate vite e le ombre dei dannati scendono verso acque sospiranti. Nella sua fossa il bianco mago gioca con le sue serpi. Silenziosi sopra il calvario si aprono gli aurei occhi di Dio.

Vision of the night: toads plunge from silver waters.

Feeling at moments of deathlike being; all human beings are worthy of love. Waking you feel the bitterness of the world; therein lies all your unresolved guilt; your poem an imperfect penance.

At first I felt something like an oppressed anxiety when I was near the little sick girl, which later changed into pious and reverential awe in face of this dumb and strangely moving suffering. Whenever I saw her, an obscure sensation would arise in me that she must surely die. And then I grew afraid to look her in the face. Whenever I roamed the forests during the day, feeling so joyful in this solitude and peace, when I stretched out wearily on the moss and gazed for hours together into the bright, shimmering sky, into whose very depths one could see, when a strange and profound sense of joy thrilled me, I would suddenly think of the sick Maria - then I would get up and roam aimlessly about, overwhelmed by inexplicable thoughts and feel a dull pressure in my head and my heart which brought me to the verge of tears. At times when I walked in the evening along the dusty main street which was filled with the scent of the blossoming lime and watched whispering couples as they stood in the shadows of the trees; when I saw two people pressed close together as though they were one being, sauntering slowly beside the fountain as it quietly played in the moolight, and a feverish thrill of presentiment coursed through me as I thought of poor sick Maria; then I was seized by a quiet yearning for something inexplicable and all at once I saw myself strolling arm in arm with her in the shade of the fragrant lime trees. And a strange radiance shone from Maria's great dark eyes, and the moon made her slender little face appear still paler and more transparent. Then I fled upstairs into my attic, leaned against the window, looked up into the deep dark heavens where the stars appeared to have gone out and for hours abandoned myself to formless and confusing dreams until overcome by sleep. And yet - and yet I did not exchange so much as ten words with poor sick Maria. She never spoke. I would only sit at her side for hours gazing into her sick, suffering face, feeling ever and again that she must die. In the garden I lay in the grass and breathed in the fragrance of a thousand flowers; my eye was intoxicated by the gleaming colours of blossoms flooded with sunlight, and I listened too for the silence in the air above, interrupted only by the mating call of a bird. I sensed the ferment of the fruitful, torrid earth, that mysterious sound of ever-creative life. I could then darkly feel the greatness and beauty of life. Then it semed to me as if life belonged to me. But then my eye lit upon the bay-window of the house. I could see the sick Maria sitting there - silent and motionless and with closed eyes. And all my thinking was again drawn to the suffering of this being and remained there - became a painful but shyly conceded yearning which struck me as puzzling and confusing. And I left the garden timidly, silently, as though I had no right to linger in this temple.

But as I descended the rocky path madness seized me and I cried aloud in the night; and as I bent over the silent waters with silver fingers, I saw that my countenance had deserted me. And the white voice spoke to me: Kill yourself! Sighing there arose in me a young boy's shadow and gazed at me radiantly from crystalline eyes, that I sank down weeping beneath the trees, the mighty canopy of stars.

Returning home The shepherds found the sweet body Decayed in the thorn-bush. I am a shadow far from sombre villages. God's silence I drank from the spring in the grove. Cold metal enters upon my brow, Spiders seek out my heart. There is a light that goes out in my mouth. At night I found myself on a heath, Stiff with refuse and dust of stars. In the hazel-bush Crystalline angels sounded again.

O, the thrill when each knows its own guilt, travels the thorny paths. Thus did he find the white form of the child in the thorn bush, bleeding after the cloak of its bride-groom. Yet he stood before her buried in his steely hair, mute and suffering. O, the radiant angels scattered by the purple night winds. Long nights did he dwell in a crystal cave and leprosy grew all silvery upon his brow. A shadow, he walked down the boundary path beneath autumnal stars. Snow fell and the blue darkness filled the house. As a blind man's, Father's harsh voice resounded and called up dread. Woe, the bowed appearance of women. Beneath petrified hands fruit and implements mouldered to the appalled race. A wolf devoured the first-born and my sisters fled into dark gardens to skeletal old men. A deranged seer, that man sang by the derelict walls and God's wind consumed his voice. O ecstasy of death. O you children of a midnight race. All silver the evil flowers of the blood shimmer about that man's brow, the cold moon within his broken eyes. O, the creatures of night; O, those who are accursed.

Woe, the stony eyes of sister, when at the meal her madness entered upon the night-dark brow of her brother, under Mother's suffering hands the bread turned to stone. O to those perished, when they with silver tongues kept Hell in silence. Then the lamps went out in the cool chamber and through purple masks the suffering humans looked at one another in silence. All night long the rain plashed and refreshed the earth. Amidst thorny wilderness the man of darkness followed the yellowed paths through the corn, the lark's song and the gentle silence of green branches, that he might find peace. O, you villages and mossy steps, glowing aspect. But the footsteps waver bonily over sleeping snakes at the forest edge and the ear ever follows the rabid cry of the vulture. At evening, he came upon stony wasteland, escort to a dead man into the dark house of his father. A purple cloud wreathed his brow, that he fell upon his own blood and image in silence, a moon-like countenance; stonily sank into a void, when in a broken mirror there appeared a dying youth, his sister; night swallowed up the accursed race.

And my shadow touched hers as though in an embrace. Then, as if taken with a fleeting thought, I stepped over to the window and laid the rose I had just broken off in Maria's lap. I then slid silently away, as though I feared being caught in the act. How often was this little course of events, which seemed so significant to me, repeated! I scarcely know. To me it is as if I had laid a thousand roses in the ailing Maria's lap, as if our shadows had embraced innumerable times. Never once did Maria mention this episode; yet from the gleam in her great radiant eyes, I sensed that she was happy about it. Perhaps these hours, when we two sat together and in silence enjoyed a great, tranquil, deep joy, were so beautiful that I felt no need for any that were more beautiful still. My old uncle quietly left us to ourselves. One day, however, as I sat by him amongst all the resplendent flowers over which great golden butterflies hovered dreamily, he spoke to me in a quiet, thoughtful voice: 'Your soul is drawn to suffering, my boy.' And therewith he laid his hand upon my head as though wishing to add something more. Yet he remained silent. Perhaps he didn't know either what he had awakened in me by this, and what was mightily stirred to life in me from that day. One day, as I again stepped over to the window where Maria sat as usual, I saw that her face had turned pale and rigid in death. Sunbeams darted across her bright, delicate form; her untied golden hair fluttered in the wind and it seemed to me as if no illness had carried her off but that she had died without visible cause - an enigma. I placed the last rose in her hand. She took it with her to the grave. Soon after Maria's death I left for the city. But the memory of those tranquil days filled with sunshine have remained alive in me, more alive perhaps than the noisome present. I shall never again see the little town at the bottom of the valley - yes, I am loath to return to it again. I believe I should be unable to do so, even though I am at times seized by a deep yearning for those ever youthful things of the past. For I know that I should only look in vain for that which is lost without trace; I would no longer find there what lives on in my memory alone - just like the here and now- and what would that bring me but endless torment.

The blue of my eyes was extinguished tonight The red gold of my heart Georg Trakl, ‘By Night’, Poems

Dear Herr Loos, After a month-long tour through all of Galicia I send you the most kind regards. I was quite ill for some days, I believe from inexpressible sorrow. Today I am glad because most certainly we will march to the north and will perhaps invade Russia in as soon as a few days. The most cordial greetings to Mr. Kraus.

So quiet are the green woods Of our homeland, The crystalline wave Dying away by the ruined wall, And we wept in sleep; Wandering with timid steps Down past the thorny thicket, Singers in summer's eve, In the sacred peace Of the far resplendent vineyard; Shadows now in the cool womb Of night, grief-stricken eagles. As gently does a moonlit beam close The scarlet scars of melancholy.

No one loved him. His head burnt up lies and licentiousness in twilit rooms. The blue rustling of a woman's dress turned him into a pillar of stone and in the doorway stood the night-dark figure of his mother. Over his head reared the shadow of Evil. O, you nights and stars. At evening he walked by the mountain with the cripple; upon the icy summit lay the roseate gleam of sunset and his heart rang quietly in the twilight. The stormy pines sank heavily over them and the red huntsman stepped out of the forest. When night fell, his heart broke like crystal and darkness beat his brow. Beneath bare oak trees with icy hands he strangled a wild cat. At the right hand appeared the white form of an angel lamenting, and in the darkness the cripple's shadow grew. But he took up a stone and threw it at the man that he fled howling, and sighing the gentle countenance of the angel vanished in the shadow of the tree. Long he lay on the stony field and gazed astonished at the golden canopy of the stars. Pursued by bats he plunged into darkness. Breathless he stepped into the derelict house. In the courtyard he, a wild animal, drank from the blue waters of the well till he felt the chill. Feverish he sat on the icy steps, raging against God that he was dying. O, the grey countenance of terror, as he raised his round eyes over the slit throat of a dove. Hastening over strange stairways he encountered a Jewish girl and clutched at her black hair and he took her mouth. A hostile force followed him through gloomy streets and an iron clash rent his ear. By autumnal walls he, now an altar boy, quietly followed the silent priest; under arid trees in ecstasy he breathed the scarlet of that venerated garment. O, the derelict disc of the sun. Sweet torments consumed his flesh. In a deserted half-way house a bleeding figure appeared to him rigid with refuse. He loved the sublime works of stone more deeply; the tower which assails the starry blue firmament with fiendish grimace; the cool grave in which Man's fiery heart is preserved. Woe to the unspeakable guilt which declares all this. But since he walked down along the autumn river pondering glowing things beneath bare trees, a flaming demon in a mantle of hair appeared to him, his sister. On awakening, the stars about their heads went out.

I felt, smelt, touched the most terrible possibilities within me, and heard the demons howl in my blood, the thousand devils with their spikes which madden the flesh. What a fearful nightmare! Gone! Today this vision of reality has dissolved into nothing again, these things are far away from me, their voices farther still, and I listen enraptured once more to the melodies that live in me, and my elated eye again dreams up its images which are lovelier than all reality! My entire, beautiful world filled with infinite harmony.

Too little love, too little justice and mercy, and always too little love; all too much hardness, arrogance, and all manner of criminality - that's me. I'm certain I only avoid evil out of weakness and cowardice and so further shame my wickedness. I long for the day when the soul shall cease to wish or be able to live in this wretched body polluted with melancholy, when it shall quit this laughable form made of muck and rottenness, which is all too faithful a reflection of a godless, cursed century.

At evening Father became an aged man; in dark rooms Mother's countenance turned to stone and the curse of the degenerate race weighed upon the youth. At times he remembered his childhood filled with sickness, terrors and darkness, secretive games in the starlit garden, or that he fed the rats in the twilit yard. Out of a blue mirror stepped the slender form of his sister and he fled as if dead into the dark. At night his mouth broke open like a red fruit and the stars grew bright above his speechless sorrow. His dreams filled the ancient house of his forefathers. At evening he loved to walk across the derelict graveyard, or he perused the corpses in a dusky death-chamber, the green spots of decay upon their lovely hands. By the convent gate he begged for a piece of bread; the shadow of a black horse sprang out of the darkness and startled him. When he lay in his cool bed, he was overcome by indescribable tears. But there was nobody who might have laid a hand on his brow. When autumn came he walked, a visionary, in brown meadows. O, the hours of wild ecstasy, the evenings by the green stream, the hunts. O, the soul that softly sang the song of the withered reed; fiery piety. Silent and long he gazed into the starry eyes of the toad, felt with thrilling hands the coolness of ancient stone and invoked the time-honoured legend of the blue spring. O, the silver fishes and the fruit that fell from crippled trees. The chiming chords of his footsteps filled him with pride and contempt for mankind. Along his homeward path he came upon a deserted castle. Ruined gods stood in the garden sorrowfully at eventide. Yet to him it seemed: here I have lived forgotten years. An organ chorale filled him with the thrill of God. But he spent his days in a dark cave, lied and stole and hid himself, a flaming wolf, from his mother's white countenance. O, that hour when he sank low with stony mouth in the starlit garden, the shadow of the murderer fell upon him. With scarlet brow he entered the moor and the wrath of God chastised his metal shoulders; O, the birches in the storm, the dark creatures that shunned his deranged paths. Hatred scorched his heart, rapture, when he did violence to the silent child in the fresh green summer garden, recognized in the radiant his deranged countenance. Woe, that evening by the window, when a horrid skeleton, Death, emerged from scarlet flowers. O, you towers and bells; and the shadows of night fell as stone upon him.

At vespers the stranger is lost in black November destruction Lost in the soft string play of his madness.

A black cavern is our silence.

At evening the complaint of the cuckoo Grows still in the wood. The grain bends its head deeper, The red poppy. Darkening thunder drives Over the hill. The old song of the cricket Dies in the field. The leaves of the chestnut tree Stir no more. Your clothes rustle On the winding stair. The candle gleams silently In the dark room; A silver hand Puts the light out; Windless, starless night.

These mountains: blackness, silence, and snow. The red hunter climbs down from the forest; Oh the mossy gaze of the wild thing. The peace of the mother: under black firs The sleeping hands open by themselves When the cold moon seems ready to fall. The birth of man. Each night Blue water washes over the rockbase of the cliff; The fallen angel stares at his reflection with sighs, Something pale wakes up in a suffocating room. The eyes Of the stony old woman shine, two moons. The cry of the woman in labor. The night troubles The boy’s sleep with black wings, With snow, which falls with ease out of the purple clouds.

[on Georg Trakl:] it was always inconceivable to me that he could live. His madness wrestled with godly things.

Pensive chest nut tree in tavern garden. The damp bells have grown silent. A young lad sings by the stream - Fire seeking out darkness -

Silently night appears, a wild thing bleeding Which slowly sinks to earth on the hillside.

Föhn Blinde Klage im Wind, mondene Wintertage, Kindheit, leise verhallen die Schritte an schwarzer Hecke, Langes Abendgeläut. Leise kommt die weiße Nacht gezogen, Verwandelt in purpurne Träume Schmerz und Plage Des steinigen Lebens, Daß nimmer der dornige Stachel ablasse vom verwesenden Leib. Tief im Schlummer aufseufzt die bange Seele, Tief der Wind in zerbrochenen Bäumen, Und es schwankt die Klagegestalt Der Mutter durch den einsamen Wald Dieser schweigenden Trauer; Nächte, Erfüllt von Tränen, feurigen Engeln. Silbern zerschellt an kahler Mauer ein kindlich Gerippe.

In ein altes Stammbuch Immer wieder kehrst du Melancholie, O Sanftmut der einsamen Seele. Zu Ende glüht ein goldener Tag. Demutsvoll beugt sich dem Schmerz der Geduldige Tönend von Wohllaut und weichem Wahnsinn. Siehe! es dämmert schon. Wieder kehrt die Nacht und klagt ein Sterbliches Und es leidet ein anderes mit. Schaudernd unter herbstlichen Sternen Neigt sich jährlich tiefer das Haupt.

بين اشجار البندق الشاحبة فتيات عمياوات يلعبن مثل عشاق يتعانقون فى النوم ربما كان الذباب يطن حول ذبيحة هناك ربما كان طفل يصرخ فى حضن امه ازهار نجميه زرق وحمرتسقط من الايدى فم الصبى ينحرف غريب ويعرف اجفانه تنطبق مألوم ومتحير خلال ظلال الحمى تصلنى رائحة الخبز النظيف