I went with my very being toward language.

no one bears witness for the witness

There's nothing in the world for which a poet will give up writing, not even he is a Jew and the language of his poems is German.

They've healed me to pieces.

Illegibility of this world. All things twice over. The strong clocks justify the splitting hour, hoarsely. You , clamped into your deepest part, climb out of yourself for ever.

With wine and being lost, with less and less of both: I rode through the snow, do you read me I rode God far--I rode God near, he sang, it was our last ride over the hurdled humans. They cowered when they heard us overhead, they wrote, they lied our neighing into one of their image-ridden languages.

Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.