Author: Paul Celan

Most brightly of all burned the hair of my evening loved one: To her I send the coffin of lightest […]

not on my lips look for your mouth, Not in front of the gate for the stranger, Not in the […]

The line That remained, that Became true: . . . your House in Paris become The alterpiece of your hands. […]

Autunm eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. From the nuts we shell time and we teach […]

more fully, Since snow fell even on this Sun-drifted, sun-drenched sea, Blossoms the ice in those baskets You carry into […]

In Kohln, a town of monks and bones, And pavements fang’d with murderous stones And rags, and hags, and hideous […]

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown We drink it at noon in the morning we drink it […]