Black Flakes

Paul Celan

1943

Snow has fallen, with no light. A month
has gone by now or two, since autumn in its monkish cowl
brought tidings my way, a leaf from Ukrainian slopes:
“Remember it’s wintry here too, for the thousandth time now
in the land where the broadest torrent flows:
Ya‘akov’s heavenly blood, blessed by axes . . .
Oh ice of unearthly red—their Hetman wades…
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