Black milk of dawn we drink you in the eveningwe drink you at noon and in the morning and we drink you at nightwe drink and drinkwe dig a hole in the air where one lies comfortablyA man lives in the house who plays with the snakes and writeshe writes when it grows dark in Deutschland your golden hair Margarethe writes it and walks out in front of the house and the stars are flashing he whistles for his guard dogs he whistles for his Jews to step forward makes them dig a grave in the groundhe orders us to play a dance tune Black milk of dawn we drink you at nightwe drink you in the morning and at noon and in the eveningwe drink and drinkA man lives in the house who plays with the snakes and writeshe writes when it grows dark in Deutschland your golden hair MargaretYour ashen hair Shulammite we dig a grave in the air where one lies comfortably He shouts thrust deeper into the ground you and you others sing up and playhe draws his gun from his belt he brandishes it his eyes are bluethrust your spades deeper you and you others keep playing the dance tune Black milk of dawn we drink you at nightwe drink you at noon and in the morning we drink you in the eveningwe drink and drinka man lives in the house your golden hair Margaretyour ashen hair Shulammite he plays with the snakes He shouts play sweetly for Death Death is a master from Deutschlandhe shouts scrape your bows more sadly then billow like smoke in the airthen you have a grave in the clouds to lie comfortably Black milk of dawn we drink you at nightwe drink you at noon Death is a master from Deutschlandwe drink you in the evening and in the morning we drink and drinkdeath is a master from Deutschland his eye is bluehe shoots with a leaden bullet he hits you a man lives in the house your golden hair Margarethe sets his guard dogs on us he offers us a grave in the airhe plays with the snakes and dreams Death is a master from Deutschland your golden hair Margaretyour ashen hair Shulammite. YOUR HAND FULL OF HOURS, that's how you came to me – I told you:Your hair is not brown.So you lifted it gently on the scale of grief, it was heavier than me… On ships they come to you and load it, and put it on sale at the markets of lust –You smile at me from the depth, I weep at you from the scale that remains light.I weep: Your hair is not brown, they offer you seawater, you give them your locks…You whisper: They're filling the world with me now, and I am still a clough in your heart!You say: put away the leafage of years, it's about time you came and kissed me!The leafage of years is brown, your hair is not.
by Paul Celan (1920-1970)
