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.

Autore: Paul Celan