Our talk was of Too Much, of
Too Little. Of Thou
and Yet-Thou, of
clouding through brightness, of
Jewishness, of
your God.
Of
that.
On the day of an ascension, the
Minster stood over there, it came
with some gold across the water.
Our talk was of your God, I spoke
against him, I let the heart
I had
hope:
for
his highest, death-rattled, his
wrangling word —
Your eye looked at me, looked away,
your mouth
spoke toward the eye, I heard:
We
really don't know, you know,
we
really don't know
what
counts.
--by Paul Celan
Translated by John Felstiner
