by
Georg Trakl (1887 - 1914)
Am Abend tönen die herbstlichen Wälder
Language: German (Deutsch)
Available translation(s): ENG FRE
Am Abend tönen die herbstlichen Wälder
Von tödlichen Waffen, die goldnen Ebenen
Und blauen Seen, darüber die Sonne
Düstrer hinrollt; umfängt die Nacht
Sterbende Krieger, die wilde Klage
Ihrer zerbrochenen Münder.
Doch stille sammelt im Weidengrund
Rotes Gewölk, darin ein zürnender Gott wohnt
Das vergossne Blut sich, mondne Kühle;
Alle Straßen münden in schwarze Verwesung.
Unter goldnem Gezweig der Nacht und Sternen
Es schwankt der Schwester Schatten durch den schweigenden Hain,
Zu grüßen die Geister der Helden, die blutenden Häupter;
Und leise tönen im Rohr die dunkeln Flöten des Herbstes.
O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre
Die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz,
Die ungebornen Enkel.
About the headline (FAQ)
Authorship:
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive):
Available translations, adaptations or excerpts, and transliterations (if applicable):
- ENG English [singable] (Bertram Kottmann) , "Grodek", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "Grodek", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [
Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2012-02-11
Line count: 17
Word count: 109
Grodek
Language: English  after the German (Deutsch)
At nightfall echoes of murderous weapons
resound in fall’s forests, on lowlands all-golden
and azure lakes, above which the low sun
more somberly rolls; the night enfolds
dying warriors, the poignant moaning
of their shatterèd mouths.
Yet quietly in the willow meads
- blood red the clouds, wherein an ireful god dwells -
the spilled, shed blood gathers, moonlit coolness;
all the roads ending in rot and in black decay.
Under golden branches of night and of stars
the sister’s shadow staggers through the deathly still grove
to nod to the ghosts of the heroes, their heads sore and wounded;
and softly down in the reeds the dark flutes of Autumn resound.
O prouder condolement! you cast-iron altars,
the spirit’s hot flame is nourished today by an enormous pain,
the grandsons, still unborn.
Authorship:
Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2014-05-18
Line count: 17
Word count: 133