With the voice of the Field-mouse
You squeak up,
a sharp
Clamp,
you bite through my Shirt into the Skin,
a Cloth,
you slither over my Mouth,
in the midst of my,
to you, Shadow, burdensome,
Speech.
With the voice of the Field-mouse
You squeak up,
a sharp
Clamp,
you bite through my Shirt into the Skin,
a Cloth,
you slither over my Mouth,
in the midst of my,
to you, Shadow, burdensome,
Speech.
© Paul Celan