with
the swarm of
black
stars pushing them-
selves
out and away:
on
to a ram’s silicified forehead
I
brand this image, between
the
horns, in which,
in
the song of the whorls, the
marrow
of melted
heart-oceans
swells.
In-
to
what
does
he not charge?
The
world is gone, I must carry you.
Paul Celan
