I am alone, I put the ash flower
in the glass of ripened black, sister mouth,
the word you speak lives on before the windows
and silent climbs me, just as I had dreamt.
I stand in the full bloom of the faded hour
and save a resin for a bird delayed:
It hears the snowflake on its life-red feather,
the ice-grain in its beak, and gets through winter.
– Paul Celan