Classic Poem

'O stolzere Trauer! ihr ehernen Altäre,
Die heiße Flamme des Geistes nährt heute ein gewaltiger Schmerz,
Die ungebornen Enkel.'

The doves alight. The rooks cast shadows down.
And yet more trains arrive at Cracow Central
with wounded soldiers, while still others leave
for Gorlitz and the not too distant front.
Ludwig Wittgenstein arrives with a frown,
his logical thoughts not yet transcendental,
his gold watch rubbing his grey jacket’s sleeve.
He doesn’t know yet what he will confront.
He doesn’t know that he is three days late.
He doesn’t know that Trakl lies cold and dead.
He’ll take a tram and then walk down a lane.
He’ll put his fingers on a rusty gate,
hear howls, smell wounds, behold a sky that’s red.
And for the first time he will fathom pain.