Paul Celan

She combs her hair, like the dead are combed,
She carries the blue fragments under her robe
She bears the fragment-world on a single skein
She knows the words, but she only beams

The Trumpet-Partdeep in the
Text-Voidat Torch-Height,in the Time-Hole: listen inwith your Mouth

The linethat remained, thatbecame true:


yourhouse in Paris — becomethe alterpiece of your hands

You were my death:you I could holdwhen all fell away from me

Stuttered-over-again World,where I shall have beena Guest, a Name,sweated down from the Wall,that a Wound licks up

We are near,
Lord,near and at hand
Handled already,
Lord,clawed and clawing as thoughthe body of each of us wereyour body,

I hear, the Axe has flowered,
I hear, the Place is un-nameable,
I hear, the Bread, that looks on him,heals the Hanged-Man,the Bread, his Wife baked for him,
I hear, they name Lifeour sole Refuge

No-man kneads us again out of Earth and Loam,no-man spirits our Dust
No-man
Praise to you,
No-man

Mitsamt meinen Steinen, den großgeweinten hinter den Gittern, schleiften sie mich in die Mitte des Marktes, dorthin, wo die Fahne sich aufrollt, der ich keinerlei Eid schwor
Flöte,
Doppelflöte der Nacht: denke der dunklen Zwillingsröte i...

To stand in the Shadowof the Wound’s-Mark in the Air
For no-one and nothing to Stand
Unknown,for youalone
With all, that within finds Room,even