Искусствоед
Ingeborg Bachmann
Gedichte 1962-1963
Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Poems 1962-1963
It occurs to me what the last days mean.
From the highest floor I look into the depths,
from the highest tone I glide to the sound below,
and on the pigeons there appears the grey sweetness.
Is there no on there to tell me to step back from the window?
Beneath the terraces live the wounded depths, the glowing canyon of the street below.
No word saves me, no hand reaches out to me.
He writes not another word in his book of blood.
Each moment has its sweet depth.
The drafts of a purer time.
Meanwhile they open this book of blood.
From each balustrade I look into the depths.
The men abandon a woman
who was also rejected by friends.
I still want to sleep, and whoever will watch over me
will make my eye shine.
transl. by Peter Filkins
Gedichte 1962-1963
Ingeborg Bachmann
The Collected Poems
Poems 1962-1963
It occurs to me what the last days mean.
From the highest floor I look into the depths,
from the highest tone I glide to the sound below,
and on the pigeons there appears the grey sweetness.
Is there no on there to tell me to step back from the window?
Beneath the terraces live the wounded depths, the glowing canyon of the street below.
No word saves me, no hand reaches out to me.
He writes not another word in his book of blood.
Each moment has its sweet depth.
The drafts of a purer time.
Meanwhile they open this book of blood.
From each balustrade I look into the depths.
The men abandon a woman
who was also rejected by friends.
I still want to sleep, and whoever will watch over me
will make my eye shine.
transl. by Peter Filkins