'O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre, <br />Die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz, <br />Die ungebornen Enkel.' <br /> <br />The doves alight. The rooks cast shadows down. <br />And yet more trains arrive at Cracow Central <br />with wounded soldiers, while still others leave <br />for Gorlitz and the not too distant front. <br />Ludwig Wittgenstein arrives with a frown, <br />his logical thoughts not yet transcendental, <br />his gold watch rubbing his grey jacket’s sleeve. <br />He doesn’t know yet what he will confront. <br />He doesn’t know that he is three days late. <br />He doesn’t know that Trakl lies cold and dead. <br />He’ll take a tram and then walk down a lane. <br />He’ll put his fingers on a rusty gate, <br />hear howls, smell wounds, behold a sky that’s red. <br />And for the first time he will fathom pain.<br /><br />Leo Yankevich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ludwig-wittgenstein-visits-george-trakl-in-hospital-cracow-6-november-1914/
