are within us,
we sleep across, to the Gate
I lose you to you, that
is my Snow-Comfort,
say, that Jerusalem is,
say, as if I were this
as if you were
as if without us we could be we,
I open your leaves, forever,
you bless, you bed
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Celan. A marvel. One must bend to him, or try to raise up to his depth/height.
'you bed us free'
Love to Celan, what and wherever he was writing/living from within and giving the attempt to us, the most undeserving but he would, too, give us all 'snow comfort.'
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