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(2 July 1877 – 9 August 1962 / Calw, Württemberg)

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I Know, You Walk--

I walk so often, late, along the streets,
Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,
Suddenly, silently, you still might rise
And I would have to gaze on all your grief
With my own eyes,
While you demand your happiness, that's dead.
I know, you walk beyond me, every night,
With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress
And walk for money, looking miserable!
Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess,
The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight---
You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.


Translated by James Wright


Submitted by Holt

Submitted: Monday, January 13, 2003


Read poems about / on: money, happiness, grief, hair, home, wind, god, night, rose

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