by
Georg Trakl (1887 - 1914)
An den Knaben Elis
Language: German (Deutsch)
Available translation(s): ENG FRE ITA
Elis, wenn die Amsel im schwarzen Wald ruft,
Dieses ist dein Untergang.
Deine Lippen trinken die Kühle des blauen Felsenquells.
Laß, wenn deine Stirne leise blutet
Uralte Legenden
Und dunkle Deutung des Vogelflugs.
Du aber gehst mit weichen Schritten in die Nacht,
Die voll purpurner Trauben hängt,
Und du regst die Arme schöner im Blau.
Ein Dornenbusch tönt,
Wo deine mondenen Augen sind.
O, wie lange bist, Elis, du verstorben.
Dein Leib ist eine Hyazinthe,
In die ein Mönch die wächsernen Finger taucht.
Eine schwarze Höhle ist unser Schweigen,
Daraus bisweilen ein sanftes Tier tritt
Und langsam die schweren Lider senkt.
Auf deine Schläfen tropft schwarzer Tau,
Das letzte Gold verfallener Sterne.
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 (Bertram Kottmann) , "To the boy Elis ", copyright © 2018, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- FRE French (Français) (Pierre Mathé) , "À l'enfant Elis", copyright © 2010, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
- ITA Italian (Italiano) (Ferdinando Albeggiani) , "Al fanciullo Elis", copyright © 2008, (re)printed on this website with kind permission
Researcher for this page: Ferdinando Albeggiani
This text was added to the website: 2008-08-15
Line count: 19
Word count: 112
To the boy Elis
Language: English  after the German (Deutsch)
Elis, when the blackbird calls in the black wood,
you are doomed.
Your lips sip the coolness of the blue rock spring.
Refrain, when your forehead softly bleeds
ancient legends
and a cryptic reading of the auspices.
You, however, step softly into the night,
that is heavy with purple grapes,
and you move your arms more beautifully in the blue.
A thorn bush sounds,
where your moon eyes are.
O, how long, Elis, you have been dead.
Your body is a hyacinth,
into which a monk dips his waxen fingers.
A black cave is our silence,
from which at times a soft animal steps
and slowly lowers its heavy eyelids.
On your temples black dew drips,
the last gold of collapsing stars.
Authorship:
Based on:
This text was added to the website: 2018-11-20
Line count: 19
Word count: 122