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Night Ray

 Most brightly of all burned the hair of my evening loved one:
to her I send the coffin of lightest wood.
Waves billow round it as round the bed of our dream in Rome; it wears a white wig as I do and speaks hoarsely: it talks as I do when I grant admittance to hearts.
It knows a French song about love, I sang it in autumn when I stopped as a tourist in Lateland and wrote my letters to morning.
A fine boat is that coffin carved in the coppice of feelings.
I too drift in it downbloodstream, younger still than your eye.
Now you are young as a bird dropped dead in March snow, now it comes to you, sings you its love song from France.
You are light: you will sleep through my spring till it's over.
I am lighter: in front of strangers I sing.

by Paul Celan
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