Who is kissing her now? It is not he. It is not she. They are not themselves. It is the wind bearing a leaf... Wer küßt sie jetzt? Es ist nicht er. Es ist sie nicht Sie sind nicht selbst. Es ist der Wind, der ein Blatt trägt ... Qui l'embrasse maintenant? Ce n'est pas lui. Ce n'est pas elle. Ils ne sont pas eux-mêmes. C'est le vent qui porte une feuille ...

The word
was born in the blood,
grew in the dark body,
beating,
and took flight through the lips and the mouth.

I drink to the word, raising
a word or a shining cup;
in it I drink
the pure wine of language
or inexhaustible water,
maternal source of words,
and cup and water and wine
give rise to my song
because the verb is the source
and vivid life-it is blood,
blood which expresses its substance
and so ordains its own unwinding.
Words give glass quality to glass,
blood to blood,
and life to life itself...