Twelve Years

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

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Twelve Years