O, der schwarze Engel, der leise aus dem Innern des Baums trat, Da wir sanfte Gespielen am Abend waren, Am Rand des bläulichen Brunnens. Ruhig war unser Schritt, die runden Augen in der braunen Kühle des Herbstes, O, die purpurne Süße der Sterne. Jener aber ging die steinernen Stufen des Mönchsbergs hinab, Ein blaues Lächeln im Antlitz und seltsam verpuppt In seine stillere Kindheit und starb; Und im Garten blieb das silberne Antlitz des Freundes zurück, Lauschend im Laub oder im alten Gestein. Seele sang den Tod, die grüne Verwesung des Fleisches Und es war das Rauschen des Walds, Die inbrünstige Klage des Wildes. Immer klangen von dämmernden Türmen die blauen Glocken des Abends. Stunde kam, da jener die Schatten in purpurner Sonne sah, Die Schatten der Fäulnis in kahlem Geäst; Abend, da an dämmernder Mauer die Amsel sang, Der Geist des Frühverstorbenen stille im Zimmer erschien. O, das Blut, das aus der Kehle des Tönenden rinnt, Blaue Blume; o die feurige Träne Geweint in die Nacht. Goldene Wolke und Zeit. In einsamer Kammer Lädst du öfter den Toten zu Gast, Wandelst in trautem Gespräch unter Ulmen den grünen Fluß hinab.
O, the black angel, who quietly emerged from the heart of the tree When we were gentle playmates in the evening, At the edge of the blue well. Our step was steady, wide eyes in the brown chill of autumn, O, the purple sweetness of the stars. But the other went down the stone steps of the Mönchsberg, A blue smile in his face and strangely changed to a pupa Inside his stiller childhood, and died; And the silver face of the friend lingered in the garden, Listening in the leaves or from inside ancient stones. A soul sang the death, the green corruption of the flesh And it was the rushing of the woods, The keen plaintive cries of wild game. The blue bells of evening ever clang from twilit towers. An hour came, when that other saw the shadows in the crimson sun, The shadows of the rot in the bare branches; Evening, when the blackbird sang on a twilit wall. The ghost of the short-lived silently appears in the room. O, the blood that runs from the throat of one intoning, A blue flower; o the fiery tear Wept in the night. A golden cloud and time. In a lonely cell You more often bid the dead as guest, Walk amid the elms in intimate dialogue down the green river.
Notes: line 6: the Mönchsberg, a hill overlooking Salzburg named for the Benedictine Abbey there. Its environs also include a cemetery, catacombs, and parkland, with wooded paths, steps, and bridges leading to a plateau that consists of woods and meadows. This translation is dedicated to Daniel Simko. After his untimely death in 2004, his father gave me Daniel’s copy of Georg Trakl: Dichtungen und Briefe (Salzburg: Otto Müller Verlag, 1969), the first edition of Trakl’s complete works, on which my translations are based.
James Reidel | Der Heilige > The Saint Contents | Mudlark No. 53 (2014)