Chanson of a Lady in the Shade.

Chanson of a Lady in the Shade. 

When the silent one comes and beheads the tulips:
Who wins?
Who loses?
Who walks to the window?
Who’s the first to speak her name?

He is one who wears my hair.
He wears it much as one wears the dead on one’s hands.
He wears it much as the sky wore my hair that year when I loved.

He wears it like that out of vanity.

That one wins.
Doesn’t lose.
Doesn’t walk to the window.
He does not speak her name.

He is one who has my eyes.
He’s had them since gates have shut.
He wears them like rings on his fingers.
He wears them like shards of sapphire and lust:
since the autumn he has been my brother;
he’s counting the days and the nights.

That one wins.
Doesn’t lose.
Doesn’t walk to the window.
He’s the last to speak her name.

He’s one who has what I said.
He carries it under his arm like a bundle.
He carries it as the clock carries its worst hour.
From threshold to threshold he carries it, never throws it away.

That one wins.
Doesn’t lose.
Doesn’t walk to the window.
He’s the last to speak her name.

With tulips that one’s beheaded.

 

Paul Celan committed suicide by drowning in the Seine river in Paris, around April 20, 1970.