Nelly Sachs Quotes

World, they have taken the small children like butterflies and thrown them, beating their wings, into the fire--

Always there where children die stone and star and so many dreams become homeless.

You remember the footprint All that is forgotten you remember from eternity You remember the footprint which filled with death As the myrmidon approached. You remember the child's trembling lips As they had to learn their farewell to their mother. You remember the mother's hands which scooped out a grave For the child which had starved at her breast. You remember the mindless words That a bride spoke into the air to her dead bridegroom.

The Woman Who Forgot Everything But in old age all drifts in blurred immensities. The little things fly off and up like bees. You forgot all the words and forgot the object too; And reached your enemy a hand where roses and nettles grew.

Our bodies continue to lament With their mutilated music.

We are so stricken We are so stricken that we think we're dying when the street casts an evil word at us. The street does not know it, but it cannot stand such a weight; it is not used to seeing a Vesuvius of pain break out. Its memories of primeval times are obliterated, since the light became artificial and angels only play with birds and flowers or smile in a child's dream

We orphans We lament to the world: Stones have become our playthings, Stones have faces, father and mother faces They wilt not like flowers, nor bite like beasts-- And burn not like tinder when tossed into the oven-- We orphans we lament to the world: World, why have you taken our soft mothers from us And the fathers who say: My child, you are like me! We orphans are like no one in the world any more! O world We accuse you!

Chorus of Comforters We are gardeners who have no flowers, No herb may be transplanted From yesterday to tomorrow. The sage has faded in the cradles-- Rosemary lost its scent facing the new dead-- Even wormwood was only bitter yesterday. The blossoms of comfort are too small Not enough for the torment of a child's tear. New seed may perhaps be gathered In the heart of a nocturnal singer. Which of us may comfort? In the depth of the defile Between yesterday and tomorrow The cherub stands Grinding the lightnings of sorrow with his wings But his hands hold apart the rocks Of yesterday and tomorrow Like the edges of a wound Which must remain open That may not yet heal. The lightnings of sorrow do not allow The field of forgetting to fall asleep. Which of us may comfort? We are gardeners who have no flowers And stand upon a shining star And weep.

Chorus of Clouds We are full of sighs, full of glances, We are full of laughter And sometimes we wear your faces. We are not far from you. Who knows how much of your blood rose And stained us? Who knows how many tears you have shed Because of our weeping? How much longing formed us? We play at dying, Accustom you gently to death. You, the inexperienced, who learn nothing in the nights. Many angels are given you But you do not see them.

Apretad, oh apretad sobre el día de la destrucción sobre la tierra el oído en escucha, y oiréis, a través del sueño oiréis como en la muerte comienza la vida.

You sit by the window and it is snowing-- your hair is white and your hands-- but in both mirrors of your white face summer has been maintained: Land for meadows raised into the invisible-- potions for shadow deer at night. But mourning I sink into your whiteness, your snow-- which life leaves ever so quietly as after a prayer is spoken to the end-- O to fall asleep in your snow with all my grief in the fiery breath of the world. While the delicate lines on your brow drown already in the ocean of night for a new birth.