Peter Huchel
Thrace
Here a flame licks
the earth by night,
white leafage whirls.
And at noon the sickle
of light shatters.
The rustling of sand
erodes the heart.
Do not lift the stone
that stores up stillness.
Under it
the millipede sleeps away
time.
Over the path
rutted by horses’ hooves
blows a mane of snow.
,At evening
the gorge fills with the smokeless shadows
of many fires.
A knife
skins the mist,
ram that crops the mountains.
On the other side of the river
the dead live.
What ferries across
is the word.
Translated by Michael Hamburger
Page(s) 61-61
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