Thirteenth of February. Shibboleth
roused in the heart's mouth. With you,
peuple
de Paris. No pasarán.
Little sheep to the left: he, Abadias,
the old man from Huesca, came with his dogs
over the field, in exile
white hung a cloud
of human nobility, into our hands
he spoke the word that we needed, it was
shepherd-Spanish, and in it
in icelight of the cruiser "Aurora":
the brotherly hand, waving with
the blindfold removed from
his world-wide eyes –– Petropolis, the
roving city of those unforgotten,
was Tuscanly close to your heart also.
Peace to the cottages!
As Translated by Michael Hamburger (Poems of Paul Celan). Posted in response to a discussion below, about to drop off the page too soon. (There's another one taking place here.)
Some excellent reading in French here and here.
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