Corona

Out of hand autumn eats me its leaf: we’re friends.

We shell time out of nuts and teach it to go:

time turns back into its shell.

Sunday’s in the mirror,

dreams are for sleeping,

the mouth speaks true.

My eye rises down to the beloved’s love-seat:

we look on each other,

we say dark things,

we love each other like poppies and memory,

we sleep like wine in mussel-shells,

like the sea in the moon’s bloodray.

We stand embracing in the window, they see us from down in

the street:

it’s time, that one knew!

It’s time, that stone deigned to blossom,

that unrest a heart palpitated.

It’s time, that it be time.

It’s time.

Paul Celan