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.

Reachable, near and not lost, there remained in the midst of the losses this one thing: language. It, the language, remained, not lost, yes, in spite of everything. But it had to pass through its own answerlessness, pass through frightful muting, pass through the thousand darknesses of deathbringing speech. It passed through and gave back no words for that which happened; yet it passed through this happening. Passed through and could come to light again, “enriched” by all this.

Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle

no one bears witness for the witness

you're rowing by wordlight

rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.

The language with which I make my poems has nothing to do with one spoken here, or anywhere.