Homecoming, Paul Celan

Snowfall, thicker and thicker
dove-colors, as yesterday,
snowfall, as if you were still asleep.

Stretching away, heaped white.
Upon it, endlessly,
sledge track of the lost.

Under it, concealed,
hump themselves up,
what so hurt the eyes,
hill upon hill,
invisible.

On each,
fetched home into its today,
an I turned to wood,
a dumb stake.

There: an apprehension,
wailed over by the icy wind,
fastens its dove-, its snow-
colored flag.