Georg Trakl

The black snow runs down from the rooftops;

A red finger dips into your brow;

Blue snow flakes sink into the empty room,

They are a lover's dying mirrors.

Heavy and torn to pieces the mind muses,

Follows the shadow in the mirror of blue snow flakes,

The cold smile of a deceased harlot.

The evening’s wind weeps in the scent of carnations.


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