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Caravan

The scholar in the embrace of young Gertrude
was dozing on his left side.
In a dream, he pictured mounds
of sand – isn't there a long hard march ahead?
And camels walked along the sand.

(One camel walked by. Another camel walked by.
And the third camel walked by. And the whole caravan walked by.)

From the diary, from the evening feasts
towards the end of the semester his temple was throbbing.
The scholar dozed. The eve of the feast lay ahead.
But the march, which pushed forward,
for everybody was far from significance.

(One camel grew tired, etc.)

Gertrude dreamed about a hundred-winged fog,
in sleep she whispered, "Sehr Gut,
scholar, the constellations in their beauty and might
will not disdain yours.
You will not be killed, my dear."

(One camel fell, etc.)

The second term went on. Shallow but even
was the dream. Dawn. The fog thinned.
Around creaked the gates of the chapels.
Far off a drum thundered, serious,
like van Beethoven.

(One camel expired, etc.)

O hard march forward! O gun-barrel with the rifle butt!
O strange dream of trepidation and youth,
when you remember not the books that threaten hell,
nor the Holy Virgin,
nor the name of the one who is next to you.

(One camel rose from the dead, etc.)

The scholar, coming round, stretched to cracking
his shoulder, rubbed balm into his temple.
He said to Gertrude: "Farewell, Augusta."
Yawned. Smoothed his forelock.
And he went out into the courtyard. There's nothing there.

(One camel went away, etc.)