Arnica, eyebright, the
drink from the well with the
roll star die on top,
in the
cabin,
written in the book
—whose name did it receive
before my own? — ,
the lines written
in this book about
a hope, today,
for the words
to come
in the heart
of a thinker,
sod of the woods, uneven,
orchis and orchis, separately,
crudity, later, in the process of driving,
clearly,
he who is driving us, the human being,
he who hears it along with us,
the half-
trodden cudgel-
path on the high moor,
moist,
much.
—Paul Celan, “Todtnauberg,” from Lichtzwang (1970) in: Gesammelte Werke, vol. 2, pp. 255-56 (S.H. transl.)
