I am alone, I set the ashen flower

in glass full of pure blackness. Sister mouth,

you speak one word, that lives on out the window,

and silent clambers, what I dreamed, aloft toward me.

I stand in bloom of this quite faded hour

and resin save for one belated songbird:

it wears a snowflake on a vivid rosy feather;

within its bill an ice grain, so comes through the summer.

Paul Celan