Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It

There's Nothing In The World For Which A Poet Will Give Up Writing, Not Even He Is A Jew And The Language Of His Poems Is German.

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?

In The Air, There Your Root Remains, There, In The Air

Death Is A Master From Germany.

Tall Poplars--human Beings Of This Earth!