O little root of a dreamyou hold me hereno longer visible to anyone,undermined by blood,that there may be speech, of earth,property of death.Curve a facehere, where you read me blind,of ardor, of things with eyes, even evento the letter.here, where yourefute 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.