Black,
like the memory-wound,
the eyes dig toward you
in the by heart-teeth light-
bitten crownland,
that remains our bed:

through this shaft you have to come—
you come.

In seed-
sense
the sea stars you out, innermost, forever.

The namegiving has an end,
over you I cast my lot.

– Paul Celan. Black

translated by Pierre Joris

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