Dismal Hours, Poem by Emile Verhaeren

Poem by Emile Verhaeren Period 19th century

Alas, what an evening! This evening of sullen vigil.
I hate, I no longer know; I want, I do not know;
Ah my soul, toward a void, has gone,
Toward a void, very far I know not where, over there?

It beats heaps of knells above my head,
The wind, it horns to death, and the blessed candles
That were lit, during the fear of the storm,
The good candles have gone out and are finished.

This is lost, this goes away, this dislocates,
This complains in me, so monotonously,
And this seems a bird’s cry, that unravels.
That unravels in the winter wind, distantly.

Oh these long hours after these long hours,
And without respite, always, and without knowing why
And without knowing why these major anguishes;
Oh these long hours of hours through me!

A torture? – Oh you who know them so dismal
These dismal nights, and who dance, in the North wind,
Ruts of hurricane, over the marshes and the viburnums
And the ponds and the paths and over death;

A torture in me strikes and lacerates me?
A torture with full flashes, like scythes
And sabers, through my misery;
A torture, with blows of nails and hammers?

Over there, these great crosses at the crossroads,
These crosses! – Oh! not to be able to bleed one’s heart there; these crosses,
Where cries of space and routs hang,
Cries and rags of wind in the great woods.

Emile Verhaeren

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/poem-dismal-hours-emile-verhaeren/