Out of The Darkness
Out of the darkness I come, a woman,
I carry a child, but no longer know whose;
Once I knew it.
But now no man is for me anymore . . . .
They all have trickled away like rivulets,
Gulped up by the earth.
I continue on my way.
For I want to reach the mountains before daybreak, 
and the stars are beginning to fade.

Out of the darkness I come.
Through dusky alleys I wandered alone,
When, suddenly, a charging light’s talons tore the soft blackness,
The wild cat, the hind,
And  doors flung open wide, disgorged ugly screams, wild howls, 
beastly roar.
Drunkards wallowed….
I shook all this from the hem of my dress along the way.

I traversed the deserted marketplace.
Leaves floated in puddles, reflecting the moon.
Haggard, hungry dogs sniffed the refuse on the cobblestones.
Trampled fruit rotted away,
An old man in rags tormented wretched strings with his play
And sang with a thin, discordant, plaintive voice
Unheard.

Once, these fruits ripened in sun and dew,
Dreaming still of the fragrance and bliss of the loving bloom,
But the wailing beggar
Had long forgotten and knew nothing but hunger and thirst.

Before the castle of the mighty I halted,
And as I set foot upon the lowest step,
The flesh-red porphyry burst cracking under my sole.-
I turned
And looked up at the plain window, the late candle of the thinker,
He pondered and pondered, never finding his query’s resolve,
And to the shaded little lamp of the infirm, who still did not learn,
How he should die.
Under the arch of the bridge
Two ghastly skeletons fought over gold.
I lifted up my poverty as a grey shield before my face
And passed unimperiled.

Far off, the river speaks with its banks.

And now, I struggle along a rocky, cumbersome path.
Fallen rocks, thorny bushes wound my blind, searching hands:
A cave awaits,
Its deepest chasm a shelter for the metal-green raven 
    who has no name.
There I shall enter,
Under the aegis of those huge, shadowing wings, I shall 
    crouch down and rest.
Somnolent, I shall listen to my child’s mute, growing word,
And sleep, my face turned toward the East, until sunrise

                                                                        -Gertrud Kolmar

Reprinted from Kolmar, Gertrude. My Gaze is Turned Inward: Letters 1934-1943. Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 2004. English translation reprinted with permission.