you hold me here
undermined by blood,
no longer visible to anyone,
property of death.
Curve a face
that there may be speech, of earth,
of ardor, of
things with eyes, even
here, where you read me blind,
even
here,
where you
refute me,
to the letter.
From Glottal Stop: 101 Poems by Paul Celan
(Translated by Nikolai Popov and Heather McHugh)
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