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.
Paul. Celan (2011). “Glottal Stop: 101 Poems by Paul Celan”, p.5, Wesleyan University Press
