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This poem is taken from PN Review 43, Volume 11 Number 5, May - June 1985.

Poems (translated by Michael Hamburger) Paul Celan

for you, my son.
I have lived.

This hut to
be dismantled tomorrow, it

I did not join in the building: you
don't know in what kind
of vessels I put
the sand from around me, years ago, thus
commanded and bidden. Yours
comes from the open places - it stays

The reed that takes root here, tomorrow
      still it will stand, wherever
in the unbound your soul may
play you.


Thirteenth of February. Shibboleth
roused in the heart's mouth. With you,
de Paris. No pasarán.

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