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.

you're rowing by wordlight

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

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

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

Death is a master from Germany.

The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.