Paul Celan
The Poet Who Wept in Iron
I write so the dead do not forget me.
My words are made of ash and lullabies. I carry the voices of the lost in every line I write, and yet they slip from my hands like smoke. I stand at the edge — of rivers, of memory, of meaning — and ask only that you listen, not for comfort, but for truth.
What I'm Into: Rilke's shadows, mother's plum trees, lead-gray dawns, the Seine at Pont Neuf, Gisèle's silence
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