W o l f d i e t r i c h S c h n u r r e —

translated by C h r i s H o l d a w a y

Birds of Prey 

Dictatorship 

From tears and blood 

the thrush builds 

the throne of her song 

in glass dice. 

Up there she reigns, 

fiery-throated, spitting 

the poison of rapture 

into dungeon confines, 

the cell of scorn. 

The monk strikes 

his forehead in the cross, 

the murderer hangs himself; 

the thrush reigns. 

Murderous Summer 

The tracer rounds 

of the nightingale’s song 

have shredded the lilac  

umbels; the statue of  

spring has been toppled. 

Only vetch still adorns  

the plinth; the  

severed head  

is coated with tracks  

of glistening mucus:  

the snail still feeds  

on the salt rim of the eye. 

Ashenland 

And once again, gray and yellow clouds break

upon the dust howled through with commands;

the marbled vultures have recovered from their fall

and stretch themselves upon the pedestals. 

The thousand swallow murders remain unavenged;

the autumn wind that sought remorse came for nothing. 

Stanza 

As the falcon 

drove its talons 

into the dove’s flesh, 

a feather fell 

upon the world’s mouth. 

Motionless it hung 

on the withering lips 

holding for breath. 

It did not come; it 

was the evening wind 

that carried it away. 

Sheet lightning 

The chaffinch's 

rain song crashes; 

the humidity parches 

its mouth. The swallow's  

plumage already drips  

with lead, and it plunges  

from the clouds; but the  

blackbird's alarm call  

catches it in nets of glass.

Assault 


With pulsating flanks, 

the city cowers, 

its chimney-ears tremble;

it hearkens 

the thistle brigades’ 

silent footsteps, 

the wild mustard hordes.

Dandelions parachuted down,

the city is already occupied.

Nightshade comes, 

horsetail swarms, 

the suburban villas 

assassinated by chamomile.

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