.
.
And yet, though we strain
against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:
.
All life is being lived.
.
Who is living it then?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?
Is it the winds blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?
.
Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances
or streets, as they wind through time?
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
(from: Book of Hours, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)
.
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