Whispered in the afternoon

Sun, autumnal thin and wan,

And the fruit falls from the trees.

In blue rooms reigns such a stillness

One quite lengthy afternoon.

Dying falls of some struck metal;

And a pallid beast breaks down.

Raucous songs of maidens brown

Are scattered in the leaves that fall.

Brow is dreaming of God’s hues,

Senses madness’ soft wings.

Shadows on the hill turn rings

With black rot entirely mewed.

Twilight full of rest and wine;

Guitars with their complaining flow.

And to the mild lamps you go

Within as if in dreaming fine.

Georg Trakl