Contributed By: Daniele Pantano, Georg Trakl
The field gleams white and cold.
The sky is lonely and vast.
Jackdaws circle above the pond
And hunters descend from the forest.
A silence dwells in black treetops.
A firelight flashes from the cottages.
Sometimes a sleigh rings in the distance
And slowly the gray moon climbs.
On the ridge a deer bleeds softly to death
And ravens splash in bloody gutters.
Reeds tremble yellow and tall.
Frost, smoke, a footstep in the empty grove.
Return to table of contents for Issue 2 Winter 2010
He watches from a field; he’s there to gloat— the video is from a cattle-car point of view; grinning, the boy draws a finger across his throat. The middle of nowhere—mountains, small, remote; the name of some village no one ever knew— he watches from a field; he’s there to gloat. A […]
to understand it once and for all one must live life as in reverse and to take walks in the forest while tearing out your hair whole and when you get to know the fire of the light bulb or of the oven say to it why are you shining you the fire are candle’s […]
Who sent the scissors, the gigantic scissors to my feet? They open and close with a bone-chilling screech. I guess, in place of ankles I have balloons. Instead of being subdued, no doubt, I’m going to cut myself down, I’m going to overturn the streets and city squares. Perhaps this is a means of sleeping. […]
