What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow | |
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, |
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, |
(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. |
Frisch weht der Wind | |
Der Heimat zu, | |
Mein Irisch Kind, | |
Wo weilest du? |