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Here summer is coming the violent season And so my youth is as dead as spring Oh Sun it is the time of reason grown passionate And I am still waiting To follow the forms she takes noble and gentle So I may love her alone She comes and draws me as a magnet draws filaments of iron She has the lovely appearance Of an adorable redhead Her hair turns golden you would say A beautiful lightning flash that goes on and on Or the flames that spread out their feathers In wilting tea roses But laugh laugh at me Men everywhere especially people from here For there are so many things that I don't dare to tell you So many things that you would not let me say Have pity on me ECHO FOR THE PROMISE OF GEORG TRAKL'S LIFE Quiet voice, In the midst of those blazing Howitzers in blossom. Their fire Is a vacancy. What do those stuttering machines Have to do With the solitude? Guns make no sound. Only the quiet voice Speaks from the body of the deer To the body of the woman. NEW POEMS 179 My own body swims in a silent pool, And I make silence. They both hear me. Hear me, Father of my sound, My poor son. A CENTENARY ODE: INSCRIBED TO LITTLE CROW, LEADER OF THE SIOUX REBELLION IN MINNESOTA, 1862 I had nothing to do with it. I was not here. I was not born. In 1862, when your hotheads Raised hell from here to South Dakota, My own fathers scattered into West Virginia And southern Ohio. My family fought the Confederacy And fought the Union. None of them got killed. But for all that, it was not my fathers Who murdered you. Not much. I don't know Where the fathers of Minneapolis finalized Your flayed carcass. Little Crow, true father Of my dark America, When I close my eyes I lose you among Old lonelinesses. My family were a lot of singing drunks and good carpenters. We had brothers who loved one another no matter what they did. And they did plenty. I think they would have run like hell from your Sioux. And when you caught them you all would have run like hell From the Confederacy and from the Union 180 ...

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