Flower 。Paul Celan
The stone.
The stone in the air, which I followed.
Your eye, as blind as the stone.
We were
hands,
we baled the darkness empty, we found
the word that ascended summer:
flower.
Flower - a blind man's word.
Your eye and mine:
they see
to water.
Growth.
Heart wall upon heart wall
adds petals to it.
One more word like this word, and the hammers
will swing over open ground.
Homecoming
Snowfall, denser and denser,
dove-coloured as yesterday,
snowfall, as if even now you were sleeping.
White, stacked into distance.
Above it, endless,
the sleigh track of the lost.
Below, hidden,
presses up
what so hurts the eyes,
hill upon hill,
invisible.
On each,
fetched home into its today,
an I slipped away into dumbness:
wooden, a post.
There: a feeling,
blown across by the ice wind
attaching its dove- its snow-
coloured cloth as a flag.
（保罗·策兰，德国犹太诗人，是二次大战后最重要的德语诗人之一，
1942年双亲皆死于集中营。）
