Georg Trakl
Hohenburg
There is no one in the house, autumn in rooms;
Moon-bright sonata
And the awakening by the edge of the twilit wood.
You ever think on Man’s white countenance
Removed from the turbulence of the times;
Green branches gladly bend over that which dreams,
Cross and eventide;
The one who sounds aloud is embraced with crimson arms by his star
Which rises to uninhabited windows above.
Thus shudders the stranger in darkness,
As softly he raises his eyelids over a human thing
Afar off; the silver voice of the wind in the hallway.
Translated by Alexander Stillmark
Page(s) 51
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