Confiteor
The colored pictures which life paints,
I see them gloomily only by twilights,
Like frizzy distorted shadows, cloudy and cold,
Hardly born, already defeated by death.
And since the mask fell from every thing,
I see only fear, desperation, disgrace and plagues,
Mankind's heroless tragedy,
A bad play, staged on graves, corpses.
This terrible dream-view disgusts me.
But a higher authority wants me to stay,
A comedian who speaks his role,
Coerced, full of desperation - boredom!
poem by Georg Trakl
Added by Poetry Lover
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