On dark benches they sit packed <br /> <br />And lift extinguished looks <br /> <br />To the cross. The lights gleam as if covered, <br /> <br />And cloudy and as if covered the head of wounds. <br /> <br />The incense rises from a golden vessel <br /> <br />To the height, dying songs <br /> <br />Exhale, and as if afflicted the room dusks <br /> <br />Uncertainly and sweet. The priest strides <br /> <br />Before the altar; but, he practices the pious rites <br /> <br />With tired spirit - a miserable player <br /> <br />Before bad prayers with numb hearts, <br /> <br />In soulless play with bread and wine. <br /> <br />The bell sounds! The lights flicker more cloudily - <br /> <br />And paler, as if covered the head of wounds! <br /> <br />The organ hisses! In dead hearts memory <br /> <br />shudders on! A bleeding countenance of pain <br /> <br />Wraps itself in darkness and the despair <br /> <br />Stares after him in the emptiness from many eyes. <br /> <br />And one who sounded like all voices, <br /> <br />Sobs - meanwhile the horror grew in the room, <br /> <br />The death-horror grew: Have mercy on us - <br /> <br />Lord!<br /><br />Georg Trakl<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dead-church-2/
