Shadow Land by Johannes Bobrowski (Translated by Ruth and Matthew Mead)

 

The rustling voices,

leaves, birds, I came

three ways before a great snow.

On the bank, burrs and awns

in her ringlets, Ragana with her hounds

shouted for the ferryman, he stood

in the water, midstream.

 
Once,

following the mists

across the dell with golden wings,

the bustard flew, they set

horny feet on the grass,

light, the day, flew after them.

 

Cold. On the tip of a grass-blade

the emptiness, white,

reaching to the sky. But the tree

old, there is

 

a shore, mists with thin

bones move on the river.

 

Darkness, whoever lives here

speaks with the bird’s voice.

Lanterns have glided

above the forests.

No breath has moved them.