Paul Celan, An Eye, Open / by Caitlin Murray

Hours, May-coloured, cool.
The no more to be named, hot,
audible in the mouth.

No one’s voice, again.

Aching depth of the eyeball:
the lid
does not stand in its way, the lash
does not count what goes in.

The tear, half,
the sharper lens, movable,
brings the images home to you


Originally Published in 1959