The line <br />that remained, that <br />became true: . . . your <br />house in Paris -- become <br />the alterpiece of your hands. <br /> <br />Breathed through thrice, <br />shone through thrice. <br />................... <br /> <br />It's turning dumb, turning deaf <br />behind our eyes. <br />I see the poison flower <br />in all manner of words and shapes. <br /> <br />Go. Come. <br />Love blots out its name: to <br />you it ascribes itself. <br /> <br /> <br />translated by Michael Hamburger<br /><br />Paul Celan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/twelve-years/
