Georg Trakl
To the boy Elis
Elis, when the blackbird calls in the black wood,
This is your downfall.
Your lips drink in the coolness of the blue rockspring.
Leave be, when quietly your brow bleeds
Bygone legends
And the dark interpretation of bird flight.
But you walk with soft steps into the night,
Which is heavy with purple grapes,
And move your arms more beautifully in the blue.
A thornbush sounds,
Where your moon eyes are.
O, how long, Elis, have you been dead.
Your body is a hyacinth,
Into which a monk dips his waxen fingers.
A black cavern is our silence,
From which at times a gentle animal steps
And slowly lowers heavy lids.
On your temples black dew drips,
The final gold of failed stars.
Translated by Will Stone
Page(s) 55-56
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