Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.
Only one thing remained reachable, close and secure amid all losses: language. Yes, language. In spite of everything, it remained secure against loss.
Reality is not simply there, it does not simply exist: it must be sought out and won.
The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.
I went with my very being toward language.
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?