Ingeborg Bachmann Poems

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
...

Now the journey is ending,
the wind is losing heart.
Into your hands it's falling,
a rickety house of cards.
...

War is no longer declared,
only continued. The monstrous
has become everyday. The hero
...

I step outside
myself, out of my eyes,
hands, mouth, outside
...

Who knows of a better world should step forward.
Alone, no longer out of bravery, not wiping away this saliva,
this saliva worn upon the cheek
...

Verwunschnes Wolkenschloß, in dem wir treiben...
Wer weiß, ob wir nicht schon durch viele Himmel
so ziehen mit verglasten Augen?
Wir, in die Zeit verbannt
...

Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed.
A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up.
A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a head was there.
...

More beatiful than the remarkable moon and her noble light,
More beautiful than the stars, the famous medals of the night,
...

Be silent with me, as all bells are silent!

In the afterbirth of terror
the rabble grovels for new nourishment.
On Good Friday a hand hangs on display
...

But where are we going
carefree be carefree
when it grows dark and when it grows cold
be carefree
...