Paul Celan

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.

— Paul Celan

Spring: trees flying up to their birds

— Paul Celan

He speaks truly who speaks the shade.

— Paul Celan

you're rowing by wordlight

— Paul Celan

no one bears witness for the witness

— Paul Celan

Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.

— Paul Celan

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air

— Paul Celan

Reality is not simply there, it must be searched and won.

— Paul Celan

Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.

— Paul Celan

The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosopher's Stone.

— Paul Celan

“U izvoru tvojih očiju more drži svoju riječ. Ja ondje bacam srce koje je boravilo kod ljudi.”

— Paul Celan

“out of a shardstrewn madness I stand up and look upon my hand, how it draws the one and only circle”

— Paul Celan

How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.

— Paul Celan

“DUMB AUTUMN SMELLS. The marguerite, unbroken, passed between home and chasm through your memory. A strange lostness was palpably present, almost you…

— Paul Celan

“The search for ground lights is not enough. There is the axis to be followed and ‘—dot dot dot—’ forgotten. You must…

— Paul Celan

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against…

— Paul Celan

German poetry is going in a very different direction from French poetry… Its language has become more sober, more factual. It distrusts…

— Paul Celan

Don't sign your name between worlds, surmount the manifold of meanings, trust the tearstain, learn to live.

— Paul Celan

“They dug and they dug, so their day went by for them, their night. And they did not praise God, who, so…

— Paul Celan

“Autunm eats its leaf out of my hand: we are friends. From the nuts we shell time and we teach it to…

— Paul Celan

A poem, being an instance of language, hence essentially dialogue, may be a letter in a bottle thrown out to the sea…

— Paul Celan