Late and Deep

Malicious as golden speech begins this night.

We eat the apples of the mute.

We do a work, that one gladly to his star leaves;

we stand in the autumn of our lindens as thoughtful flag-red,

as burning guests from the south.

We swear by Christ the new, the dust to marry to dust,

the birds to a wandering shoe,

our heart a stairway in water.

We swear to the world the sacred oaths of sand,

we swear them gladly,

we swear them loud from the roofs of dreamless sleep

and wave the white hair of time...

They cry: You blaspheme!

We’ve known that long since.

We’ve known that long since, and what matter?

You grind in the mills of death the white meal of promise,

you set it before our brothers and sisters—

We wave the white hair of time.

You admonish us: You blaspheme!

We know it well,

let the guilt be upon us.

Let the guilt be upon all our warning signs,

let the gurgling sea,

the harnessed gust of reversal,

the midnightly day,

let what never yet was!

Let a man come out of the grave.

Paul Celan