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Am Abend tönen die herbstlichen Wälder

Language: German (Deutsch)

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.


Translation(s): ENG FRE

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Submitted by Emily Ezust [Administrator]

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, and transliterations (if applicable):

  • FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , title 1: "Grodek", copyright © 2012, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
  • ENG English [singable] (Bertram Kottmann) , title 1: "Grodek", copyright © 2014, (re)printed on this website with kind permission


Text added to the website: 2012-02-11.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:04:46
Line count: 17
Word count: 109

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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.


IMPORTANT NOTE: The material directly above is protected by copyright and appears here by special permission. If you wish to copy it and distribute it, you must obtain permission or you will be breaking the law. Once you have permission, you must give credit to the author and display the copyright symbol ©. Copyright infringement is a criminal offense under international law.

Authorship

  • Singable translation from German (Deutsch) to English copyright © 2014 by Bertram Kottmann, (re)printed on this website with kind permission. To reprint and distribute this author's work for concert programs, CD booklets, etc., you must ask the copyright-holder(s) directly for permission. If you receive no response, you must consider it a refusal.

    Bertram Kottmann. Contact:
    <BKottmann (AT) t-online.de>


    If you wish to commission a new translation, please contact:
    licenses (AT) lieder (DOT) net
    (licenses at lieder dot net)




Based on

 

Text added to the website: 2014-05-18.
Last modified: 2014-06-16 10:05:33
Line count: 17
Word count: 133