Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the
blue of your eyes
you lay the table of love: a bed between summer and
We drink what somebody brewed neither I nor you nor
a third; we lap up some empty and last thing.
We watch ourselves in the deep sea’s mirrors and faster
pass food to the other:
the night is the night, it begins with the morning,
beside you it lays me down.
(Paul Celan, The Years from You to Me)