SHIBBOLETH
Together with my stones,
heavy with weeping
behind the bars,
they dragged me
to the very middle of the market,
the place
where the flag unfurls
to which I would swear no oath.
Flute,
double-flute of the night:
think back to the dark
twin redness
in Vienna and Madrid.
Set your flag at half-mast,
memory.
At half-mast
today and for ever.
Heart:
here too reveal yourself,
here in the midst of the market.
Call it out, the shibboleth,
into the foreignness of your homeland:
February. No pasarán.
Unicorn:
you know of the stones,
you know of the waters,
come,
let me lead you away
to the voices
of Extremadura.
Paul Celan
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