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

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

in the air, there your root remains, there, in the air

He speaks truly who speaks the shade.

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.

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?

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.