Spring: trees flying up to their birds

Death is a master from Germany.

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.

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.

Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.

There was earth inside them, and they dug.

who is invisible enough to see you