Twelve Years – Paul Celan

The line
that remained, that
became true: . . . your
house in Paris — become
the alterpiece of your hands.

Breathed through thrice,
shone through thrice.
……………….

It’s turning dumb, turning deaf
behind our eyes.
I see the poison flower
in all manner of words and shapes.

Go. Come.
Love blots out its name: to
you it ascribes itself.

With The Voice – Paul Celan

With the voice of the Field-mouse
You squeak up,

a sharp
Clamp,
you bite through my Shirt into the Skin,

a Cloth,
you slither over my Mouth,
in the midst of my,
to you, Shadow, burdensome,
Speech.

The Poles – Paul Celan

The Poles
are within us,
insurmountable
while Awake,
we sleep across, to the Gate
of Mercy,

I lose you to you, that
is my Snow-Comfort,

say, that Jerusalem is,

say, as if I were this
your Whiteness,
as if you were
mine,

as if without us we could be we,

I open your leaves, forever,

you bless, you bed
us free.