Georg Trakl

At Monchsberg


Where in the shadows of autumn elms the ruined path sinks downward,
Far from the huts of foliage, the sleeping herdsmen,
The dark shape of coolness pursues the wanderer always.

Across the footbridge of bone, the hyacinthine voice of the boy,
Softly reciting the forgotten legends of the forest.
A more gentle illness now the wild lament of the brother.

So a sparse green brushes the knee of the stranger,
The head turned to stone;
Nearer the blue springhead murmurs the lament of women.



trns. by Robert Firmage


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