Friday, 21 January 2011
Ranier Maria Rilke's poem
Lying like a he is, quite
put off by the great will.
Far distant as mothers when they breastfeed
and is bound like a wreath.
And get the arrows, now and now
and when they would spring from his loins,
iron trembling with the free ends.
But he smiles dark, unharmed.
Once only his grief is great;
and the eyes are just painful
to deny something as small thing
and when she let go of contempt
the destroyer of a beautiful thing.
Rainer Maria Rilke, Winter 1905/06, Meudon