The Saint - Poem by Georg Trakl
When in the hell of self-created sufferings
Cruelly indecent pictures plague him -
No heart was ever so enchanted by lascivious prurience
Like his, and no heart so tormented
By God - he lifts gaunt hands,
Unredeemed, praying to heaven.
But, only agonizingly insatiable lust forms
His rutting, feverish prayer, its fervor
Surges there through mystical infinities.
And not so drunkenly the Evoe
Of Dionysus sounds, as if his shout
Of torment forces fulfillment in deadly,
Furiously slobbering ecstasy: Exaudi me, o Mary!
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