what’s written goes hollow; what’s spoken, seagreen

Two poems by Paul Celan.

Oozing, then
weedy stillness on the banks.
Yet one more sluice. At the
wart tower,
bathed in brackishness,
you debouch.
In front of you, among
giant rowing sporangiums,
a brightness sickles as though words
were grasping.


Лежиш отвън
над себе си.
Над теб отвън
лежи съдбата ти,
белоока, от песен
отронена, към нея иде нещо,
то помага
при изтръгването на езика,
по обед също, вън.


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