.
There stands death, a bluish distillate
in a cup without a saucer. Such a strange
place to find a cup: standing on
the back of a hand. One recognizes clearly
the line along the glazed curve, where the handle
snapped. Covered with dust. And HOPE is written
across the side, in faded Gothic letters.
.
The man who was to drink out of that cup
read it aloud at breakfast, long ago.
.
What kind of beings are they then,
who finally must be scared away by poison?
.
Otherwise would they stay here? Would they keep
chewing so foolishly on their own frustration?
The hard present moment must be pulled
out of them, like a set of false teeth. Then
they mumble. They go on mumbling, mumbling...
................................................................
.
O shooting star
that fell into my eyes and through my body -:
Not to forget you. To endure.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
from Uncollected Poems
translated by Stephen Mitchell
.
