The forest bitter, spiky,
no shore breeze, no foothills,
the grass grows matted, death will come
with horses' hooves, endlessly
over the steppes' mounds, we went back,
searching the sky for the fort
that could not be razed.
The villages hostile,
the cottages cleared out in haste,
smoked skin on the attic beams,
snare netting, bone amulets.
All over the country an evil reverence,
animals' heads in the mist, divination
by willow wands.
Later, up in the North,
rushed by on horseback.
We buried the dead.
It was hard
to break the soil with our axes,
fir had to thaw it out.
The blood of sacrificed cockerels
was not accepted.
Translated by Michael Hamburger.
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Comments about this poem (Melpomene by Peter Huchel )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 January 1887 – 20 January 1962)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
William Ernest Henley
(1849 - 1902)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
(1207 - 1273)
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