| What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow | |
| Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, | 20 |
| You cannot say, or guess, for you know only | |
| A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, | |
| And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, | |
| And the dry stone no sound of water. Only | |
| There is shadow under this red rock, | 25 |
| (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), | |
| And I will show you something different from either | |
| Your shadow at morning striding behind you | |
| Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; | |
| I will show you fear in a handful of dust. | 30 |
| Frisch weht der Wind | |
| Der Heimat zu. | |
| Mein Irisch Kind, | |
| Wo weilest du? | |
| 'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; | 35 |
| 'They called me the hyacinth girl.' | |
| —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, | |
| Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not | |
| Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither | |
| Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, | 40 |
| Looking into the heart of light, the silence. | |
| Od' und leer das Meer. | |
/ excerpt from 'I. the burial of the dead' from the waste land by ts eliot |
07 October 2010
