At the MoorWanderer in the black wind, quietly the dry reeds whisperIn the stillness of the moor. In the gray skyA flock of wild birds follows,Slanting over gloomy waters.Turmoil. In decayed hutThe spirit of putrescence flutters with black wings.Crippled birches in the autumn wind.Evening in deserted tavern. The way home is scented all aroundBy the soft gloom of grazing herds,Apparition of the night, toads plunge from brown waters.
~ Georg Trakl
