Underway

At evening they bore the stranger into the death parlor;
a scent of tar; the faint rustling of red sycamores;
the dark flight of jackdaws; guard was set up on the square.
The sun has sunk into black linen; again and again this past
                   evening returns.
In the next room the sister is playing a sonata by Schubert.
Very softly her smile sinks into the crumbling fountain, which murmurs bluish in the twilight. Oh, how ancient is our                                       
                   flesh.
Someone is whispering below in the garden; someone has
                   forsaken this black sky.
Apples smell fragrant on the dresser. Grandmother lights
                   golden candles.

Oh, how mild is this autumn. Beneath high trees our footsteps
                   ring faintly
in the old park. Oh, how solemn is the hyacinthine countenance
                   of twilight.
The blue spring at your feet, mysterious the red stillness of your
                   mouth,
obscured by the slumber of the foliage, by the dark gold of
                   withered sunflowers.
Your lids are heavy with the poppy and dream softly on my brow.
Faint bells shiver through my breast. A blue cloud
is your countenance upon me, sunken in the twilight.

Copyright Credit: Georg Trakl, "Underway" from Song of the Departed. Copyright © 2011 by Georg Trakl. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press.