O Little Root of a Dream

O little root of a dream 

you hold me here 

no longer visible to anyone, 

undermined by blood, 

that there may be speech, of earth, 

property of death.
Curve a face

here, where you read me blind,
of ardor, of
things with eyes, even

even 

to the letter.
here, 
where you 

refute me, 

Reproduced from The Griffin Poetry Prize Anthology: Selections from the 2001 Shortlist, published by House of Anansi Press. Originally from Glottal Stop: 101 Poems by Paul Celan. Copyright © 2000 by translators Nikolai Popov and Heather McHugh and reprinted by permission of Wesleyan University Press. All rights reserved.