by Paul Celan
What did I
Seminated the night, as though
there could be others, more nocturnal than
Bird flight, stone flight, a thousand
described routes. Glances,
purloined and plucked. The sea,
tasted, drunk away, dreamed away. An hour
soul-eclipsed. The next, an autumn light,
offered up to a blind
feeling which came that way. Others, many,
with no place but their own heavy centres: glimpsed and avoided.
Erratic boulders, stars,
black, full of language: named
after an oath which silence annulled.
And once (when? that too is forgotten):
felt the barb
where my pulse dared the counter-beat.