Threadsuns
By Paul Celan
Translated By Pierre Joris
Threadsuns
above the grayblack wastes.
A tree-
high thought
grasps the light-tone: there are
still songs to sing beyond
mankind.
Those Winter Sundays -- Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
Inspired by his expertise in breaking ancient codes, Roeland Decorte built a smartphone app that continuously listens for signs of disease hidden in our pulse.