the years from you to me

Your hair waves once more when I weep. With the blue of your eyes
you lay the table of love: a bed between summer and autumn.
We drink what somebody brewed, neither I nor you nor a third:
we lap up some empty and last thing.

We watch ourselves in the deep sea’s mirrors and faster pass food
    to the other:
the night is the night, it begins with the morning,
beside you it lays me down.

– Paul Celan