Peter Huchel
Macbeth
I talked with witches,
in what language,
I don’t remember.
Blasted open
the gates of Heaven,
the spirit unleashed,
in whirlwinds
the heath folk.
By the sea
the dirty toes of the snow,
here waits a man
with skinless hands.
I wish my mother
had suffocated me.
From the stables of the wind
he will come,
where the old women
chop up chaff for fodder.
Suspicion, my helmet,
I’ll hang it up
on the rafters of night.
Translated by Michael Hamburger
Page(s) 11
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