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“World, they have taken the small children like butterflies and thrown them, beating their wings, into the fire--”
―
―
“You remember the footprint
All that is forgotten you remember from eternity
You remember the footprint which filled with death
As the myrmidon approached.
You remember the child's trembling lips
As they had to learn their farewell to their mother.
You remember the mother's hands which scooped out a grave
For the child which had starved at her breast.
You remember the mindless words
That a bride spoke into the air to her dead bridegroom.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
All that is forgotten you remember from eternity
You remember the footprint which filled with death
As the myrmidon approached.
You remember the child's trembling lips
As they had to learn their farewell to their mother.
You remember the mother's hands which scooped out a grave
For the child which had starved at her breast.
You remember the mindless words
That a bride spoke into the air to her dead bridegroom.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
“Always
there where children die
stone and star
and so many dreams
become homeless.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
there where children die
stone and star
and so many dreams
become homeless.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
“The Woman Who Forgot Everything
But in old age all drifts in blurred immensities.
The little things fly off and up like bees.
You forgot all the words and forgot the object too;
And reached your enemy a hand where roses and nettles grew.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
But in old age all drifts in blurred immensities.
The little things fly off and up like bees.
You forgot all the words and forgot the object too;
And reached your enemy a hand where roses and nettles grew.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
“Chorus of Comforters
We are gardeners who have no flowers,
No herb may be transplanted
From yesterday to tomorrow.
The sage has faded in the cradles--
Rosemary lost its scent facing the new dead--
Even wormwood was only bitter yesterday.
The blossoms of comfort are too small
Not enough for the torment of a child's tear.
New seed may perhaps be gathered
In the heart of a nocturnal singer.
Which of us may comfort?
In the depth of the defile
Between yesterday and tomorrow
The cherub stands
Grinding the lightnings of sorrow with his wings
But his hands hold apart the rocks
Of yesterday and tomorrow
Like the edges of a wound
Which must remain open
That may not yet heal.
The lightnings of sorrow do not allow
The field of forgetting to fall asleep.
Which of us may comfort?
We are gardeners who have no flowers
And stand upon a shining star
And weep.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
We are gardeners who have no flowers,
No herb may be transplanted
From yesterday to tomorrow.
The sage has faded in the cradles--
Rosemary lost its scent facing the new dead--
Even wormwood was only bitter yesterday.
The blossoms of comfort are too small
Not enough for the torment of a child's tear.
New seed may perhaps be gathered
In the heart of a nocturnal singer.
Which of us may comfort?
In the depth of the defile
Between yesterday and tomorrow
The cherub stands
Grinding the lightnings of sorrow with his wings
But his hands hold apart the rocks
Of yesterday and tomorrow
Like the edges of a wound
Which must remain open
That may not yet heal.
The lightnings of sorrow do not allow
The field of forgetting to fall asleep.
Which of us may comfort?
We are gardeners who have no flowers
And stand upon a shining star
And weep.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
“Our bodies continue to lament
With their mutilated music.”
―
With their mutilated music.”
―
“Chorus of Clouds
We are full of sighs, full of glances,
We are full of laughter
And sometimes we wear your faces.
We are not far from you.
Who knows how much of your blood rose
And stained us?
Who knows how many tears you have shed
Because of our weeping? How much longing formed us?
We play at dying,
Accustom you gently to death.
You, the inexperienced, who learn nothing in the nights.
Many angels are given you
But you do not see them.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
We are full of sighs, full of glances,
We are full of laughter
And sometimes we wear your faces.
We are not far from you.
Who knows how much of your blood rose
And stained us?
Who knows how many tears you have shed
Because of our weeping? How much longing formed us?
We play at dying,
Accustom you gently to death.
You, the inexperienced, who learn nothing in the nights.
Many angels are given you
But you do not see them.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
“We are so stricken
We are so stricken
that we think we're dying
when the street casts an evil word at us.
The street does not know it,
but it cannot stand such a weight;
it is not used to seeing a Vesuvius of pain
break out.
Its memories of primeval times are obliterated,
since the light became artificial
and angels only play with birds and flowers
or smile in a child's dream”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
We are so stricken
that we think we're dying
when the street casts an evil word at us.
The street does not know it,
but it cannot stand such a weight;
it is not used to seeing a Vesuvius of pain
break out.
Its memories of primeval times are obliterated,
since the light became artificial
and angels only play with birds and flowers
or smile in a child's dream”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
“We orphans
We lament to the world:
Stones have become our playthings,
Stones have faces, father and mother faces
They wilt not like flowers, nor bite like beasts--
And burn not like tinder when tossed into the oven--
We orphans we lament to the world:
World, why have you taken our soft mothers from us
And the fathers who say: My child, you are like me!
We orphans are like no one in the world any more!
O world
We accuse you!”
―
We lament to the world:
Stones have become our playthings,
Stones have faces, father and mother faces
They wilt not like flowers, nor bite like beasts--
And burn not like tinder when tossed into the oven--
We orphans we lament to the world:
World, why have you taken our soft mothers from us
And the fathers who say: My child, you are like me!
We orphans are like no one in the world any more!
O world
We accuse you!”
―
“Apretad, oh apretad sobre el día de la destrucción
sobre la tierra el oído en escucha,
y oiréis, a través del sueño
oiréis
como en la muerte
comienza la vida.”
―
sobre la tierra el oído en escucha,
y oiréis, a través del sueño
oiréis
como en la muerte
comienza la vida.”
―
“You sit by the window
and it is snowing--
your hair is white
and your hands--
but in both mirrors
of your white face
summer has been maintained:
Land for meadows raised into the invisible--
potions for shadow deer at night.
But mourning I sink into your whiteness,
your snow--
which life leaves ever so quietly
as after a prayer is spoken to the end--
O to fall asleep in your snow
with all my grief in the fiery breath of the world.
While the delicate lines on your brow
drown already in the ocean of night
for a new birth.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
and it is snowing--
your hair is white
and your hands--
but in both mirrors
of your white face
summer has been maintained:
Land for meadows raised into the invisible--
potions for shadow deer at night.
But mourning I sink into your whiteness,
your snow--
which life leaves ever so quietly
as after a prayer is spoken to the end--
O to fall asleep in your snow
with all my grief in the fiery breath of the world.
While the delicate lines on your brow
drown already in the ocean of night
for a new birth.”
― Collected Poems I: (1944-1949)
