Count the almonds,
count what was bitter and kept you awake
count me in:
I looked for your eye when you opened it, no one was looking at you,
I spun that secret thread
on which the dew you were thinking
slid down to the jugs
guarded by words that to no one’s heart found their way.
Only there did you wholly enter the name that is yours,
sure-footed stepped into yourself,
freely the hammers swung in the bell frame of your silence,
the listened for reached you,
what is dead put its arm about you also
and the three of you walked through the evening.
Make me bitter.
Count me among the almonds.
— Paul Celan
trans. Michael Hamburger