Painted angels guard the altars; <br /> <br />And rest and shadows; beam from blue eyes. <br /> <br />In incense-fumes dirty lyes swim. <br /> <br />Figures stagger woebegone in the emptiness. <br /> <br />In the black kneeler a smallish whore <br /> <br />With faded cheeks resembles the Madonna. <br /> <br />In golden beams wax figures hang; <br /> <br />Moon and sun circle the white-bearded God. <br /> <br />A shine of soft columns and skeletons. <br /> <br />The sweet voices of boys died at the chancel. <br /> <br />Very quietly rapt colors move, <br /> <br />A flowing red from Magdalene's lips. <br /> <br />A pregnant woman goes astray in grave dreams <br /> <br />Through this twilight full of masks, flags. <br /> <br />Her shadow crosses the saints' still ways, <br /> <br />The angel's rest in lime-washed rooms.<br /><br />Georg Trakl<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-church-7/
