Georg Trakl
Variations - Georg Trakl
Decline
Wild birds no longer fly
over our white pool
and wind from our stars at evening
blows ever cool.
Night’s fractured brow bends low
over our graves.
Under oak boughs our silver boat
sways on the waves.
Beneath thorn-arches the city’s
walls ring white.
We are blind clock-hands, brother,
and climb to midnight.
Each of the following pieces is written as a response to a poem. They cannot be thought of as translations for I am insufficiently skilled in any language but native English. I have taken several English translations and I hope I have created a variation which has captured something of the tone and feel of the original. - Norman Buller
Translated by Norman Buller
Page(s) 198-199
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