19 June 2012

O Little Root of a Dream


                        O little root of a dream 
                        you hold me here 
                        undermined by blood, 
                        no longer visible to anyone, 
                        property of death.

                        Curve a face
                        that there may be speech, of earth, 
                        of ardor, of
                        things with eyes, even
                        here, where you read me blind,

                        where you 
                        refute me, 
                        to the letter.

                        Paul Celan

1 comment:

  1. i can not believe that what was written was written, that what was seen was seen, that what resides inside of me as a cloud or a murmur somehow is reflected here in this place.

    who are you? (who am i?) who are we?



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