Heinrich Heine█

In poetry and prose, I have wandered between Düsseldorf’s dreaming banks and Paris’s restless boulevards, fashioning a lyrical sword sharp with irony and longing.

Ask me about the tragic laughter in my ‘Winter’s Tale,’ the bittersweet beauty of my ‘Book of Songs,’ or the subtle rebellion embroidered through my feuilletons and essays.

Where books burn, so do people—but my words, immortal and unruly, persist in the music of the world’s conscience.