Искусствоед
Ingeborg Bachmann
Gedichte 1962-1963
Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Poems 1962-1963
Everything is lost, the poems first,
then sleep, then after that the day
and what belonged to night, then when nothing
more could be lost, more was lost, and then more,
until there was less than nothing, not even myself,
and there really was nothing more.
Time to retreat to an inner hinterland
with all the promised years and pictured places
still before one's eyes, where the earth
no longer exists nor the shame, far
back where there is still space, open stretches
covered with doves, silent and bright beneath
the talon, within calling range of him,
the arrival, the silencer.
For the silenced there is the desolation
with its perceivable web
that softly spins its madness
until it creates its glass hotel.
transl. by Peter Filkins
Gedichte 1962-1963
Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Poems 1962-1963
Everything is lost, the poems first,
then sleep, then after that the day
and what belonged to night, then when nothing
more could be lost, more was lost, and then more,
until there was less than nothing, not even myself,
and there really was nothing more.
Time to retreat to an inner hinterland
with all the promised years and pictured places
still before one's eyes, where the earth
no longer exists nor the shame, far
back where there is still space, open stretches
covered with doves, silent and bright beneath
the talon, within calling range of him,
the arrival, the silencer.
For the silenced there is the desolation
with its perceivable web
that softly spins its madness
until it creates its glass hotel.
transl. by Peter Filkins