बुधवार, 17 नवंबर 2010

death






.
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
.

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