Four Poems
At nightfall they carried the stranger
Into the room of the dead;
An odour of tar; the red plane tree’s soft rustling;
Dark flight of jackdaws, the guard marched
on the square.
The sun has sunk in black linen; forever
this bygone evening returns.
In the next room the sister is playing a Schubert sonata.
So softly sinks her smile into the ruined fountain,
Which rustles bluish in the twilight. Oh how ancient
our lineage.
Someone whispers below in the garden; someone has
left this black heaven…
The poet Will Stone translates a selection of poetry by Georg Trakl.