The poem is lonely. It is lonely and en route. Its author stays with it. Does this very fact not place the poem already here, at its inception, in the encounter, in the mystery of encounter?

How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.

Read! Read all the time, the understanding will come by itself.

There was earth inside them, and they dug.

We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'

Death is a master from Germany.

Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.