Peter Huchel
Eastern River
Do not look for the stones In water above the mud, The boat is gone. No longer with nets and baskets The river is dotted. The sun wick, The marsh marigold flickered out in
Answer
Between two nights The brief day. The farm is there. And in the thicket, a snare The hunter set for us. Noon’s desert. It still warms the stone. Chirping in the wind, Buzz of
Meeting
For Michael Hamburger Barn owl Daughter of snow, Subject to the night wind, Yet taking root With her talons In the rotten scab of walls, Beak face With round eyes, Heart-rigid mask Of feathers
Melpomene
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