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by Paul Celan （Translated by Heather McHugh and Nikolai Popov）
O little root of a dream you hold me here undermined by blood，
no longer visible to anyone，
property of death.
Curve a face that there may be speech， of earth，
of ardor， of things with eyes，
even here，where you read me blind，
even here，where you refute me，to the letter
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