The forest bitter, spiky,
no shore breeze, no foothills,
the grass grows matted, death will come
with horses' hooves, endlessly
over the steppes' mounds, we went back,
searching the sky for the fort
that could not be razed.
The villages hostile,
the cottages cleared out in haste,
smoked skin on the attic beams,
snare netting, bone amulets.
All over the country an evil reverence,
animals' heads in the mist, divination
by willow wands.
Later, up in the North,
rushed by on horseback.
We buried the dead.
It was hard
to break the soil with our axes,
fir had to thaw it out.
The blood of sacrificed cockerels
was not accepted.
Translated by Michael Hamburger.
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Comments about this poem (Melpomene by Peter Huchel )
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
- Algernon Charles Swinburne
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(10 February 1970-)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Adam Lindsay Gordon
(19 October 1833 – 24 June 1870)
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