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.
translated by Michael Hamburger
Paul Celan
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twelve-years/
