"It is not you who will speak; let the disaster speak in you, even if it be by your forgetfulness or silence."- Blanchot, The Writing of the Disaster, p. 4 (via spiritandteeth)
Elis, when the blackbird calls in the black woods,
This is your decline.
Your lips drink the coolness of the blue rock-spring.
Cease, when your forehead bleeds quietly
And dark interpretations of the flight of birds.
But with gentle steps you walk into the night,
That hangs full of purple grapes,
And you move the arms more beautifully in the blueness.
A thorn bush tinges,
Where your moon-like eyes are.
O, how long, Elis, have you been dead.
Your body is a hyacinth,
Into which a monk dips his waxy fingers.
Our silence is a black cavern,
From which a soft animal steps at times
And slowly lowers heavy eyelids.
On your temples black dew drips,
The last gold of expired stars.
Georg Trakl, from Sebastian in Dream
Elis - A myth-like, enigmatic boy character in some of Trakl’s poems. The model for the name doesn’t originate from the Greek Peloponnesian peninsular, but in the historical fall of Swedish miner Elis Froebom in the 17th century, which E. T. A. Hoffmann (in the novel, “The Miners of Falun”, 1818) and Hugo von Hofmannsthal (in the verse drama fragment, “The Miners of Falun”, 1906) treated in literature. Elis Froebom met with an accident in the mine on the day of his wedding, and his body was discovered decades later perfectly preserved his youth while his bride had become an old woman.
"Whacher is what she was.
She whached God and humans and moor wind and open night.
She whached eyes, stars, inside, outside, actual weather.
She whached the bars of time, which broke.
She whached the poor core of the world,
— Anne Carson, Whacher