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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.


Tr. Michael Hamburger

Added: 5 Aug 2002 | Last Read: 3 Dec 2008 6:18 AM | Viewed: 2291 times

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