Occidental song

O wingbeat of the nightly soul:

Shepherds were we erst in twilight forests gone

And the red beast followed us, the green flower and the

stammering fount

Humbly. O, the cricket’s age-old note,

Blood blooming on the offering-stone

And the lonely bird’s cry over the pond’s green hush.

O, you crusades and red-hot torments

Of the flesh, falling of purple fruits

In the evening garden, where ages since the pious disciples

went,

Warriors now, waking up from wounds and starry dreams.

O, the soft cornflower-bunch of night.

O, you ages of hush and golden autumns,

When we peaceable monks the purple cluster pressed;

And round about shone hill and wood.

O, you hunts and castles; evening rest,

When in his chamber man pondered justice,

In mute prayer strove for the living godhead.

O the bitter hour of shipwreck,

When we behold in darkling waters a face of stone.

But beaming raise their silvery eyelids lovers:

One body. Incense streams from rosy cushions

And the sweet song of the arisen.

Georg Trakl