Tuesday
Feb072012

Sonnets to Orpheus II, 21

Sing the gardens, my heart, that you don’t know,

like those poured into glass, radiant, unattainable.

Fountains and roses from Ispahan or Shiraz,

sing them holy; praise them, unique as they are.

 

Show, my heart, that you can’t live without them,

that their ripening figs are meant solely for you,

that among blossoming branches, you give yourself

to them, the winds rising to caress your face.

 

Refuse the error that there is anything lacking

for one who resolves simply this:  to be!

As silken threads you were woven into the fabric.

 

Whatever of these images you’ve become one with,

even if only in a moment of life’s anguish,

sense how it belongs to the whole glorious tapestry.

 

 

                        Rainer Maria Rilke, The Sonnets to Orpheus II, 21;

                                 translated by Mark S. Burrows