Autumn eats leaves right out of my hand: we are friends.
We shell time from the nuts and teach time to walk:
then time returns to its shell.
In the mirror it is Sunday,
in a dream I can fall asleep,
our mouths speak the truth.
My eye travels down to the sex of my lover:
we look at each other,
we exchange darknesses,
we love like opium and memory,
we sleep like wine in mussel-shells,
like the sea in the blood-ray of the moon.
We stand by the window holding each other,
and people stare up from the street:
it is time they knew!
It is time that the stone made an effort to flower,
that unrest beat with a beating heart.
It is time that it is time.
It is time.
Paul CelanTranslated from German by Paul Weinfield, © 2014