Final Vigil
How dark the veins of your temples;
Heavy, heavy your hands.
Deaf to my voice, already
In sealed-off lands?
Under the light that flickers
You are so mournful and old;
And your lips are talons
Clenched in a cruel mould.
Silence is coming tomorrow
And possibly underway
The last rustle of garlands,
The first air of decay.
Later the nights will follow
Emptier year by year.
Here where your head lay, and gently
Ever your breathing was near.
Translated by Peter Viereck
Page(s) 255-256
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