A song for guitar struck up in a strange tavern,
The elder-bushes there, a November day long past,
Familiar steps on the twilit stair, the sight of beams turned brown,
An open window where a sweet hope lingered-
All this, O God, is so unutterable that one falls shattered to one’s knees.
O, how dark is this night. A crimson flame
Died in my mouth. In the silence
The line stringed music of the fearful soul dies away.
Stay, when drunk with wine, your head sinks to the gutter.
G. Trakl
