I
A paleness, resting in the shadow of decayed staircases -
It rises at night in silver guise
And wanders under the cloister.
In coolness of a tree and without pain
The perfect breathes
And does not need the autumnal stars -
Thorns over which the other falls.
Lovers ponder long after
His sad fall.
poem by Georg Trakl
Added by Poetry Lover
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