Descent and Defeat
To Karl Borromaus Heinrich
Over the white fishpond
The wild birds have blown away.
An icy wind drifts from our stars at evening.
Over our graves
The broken forehead of the night is bending.
Under the oaks we veer in a silver skiff.
The white walls of the city are always giving off
sound.
Under arching thorns
O my brother blind minute-hands we are climbing
toward midnight
poem by Georg Trakl
Added by Poetry Lover
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