.
.
You are the future,
the red sky before sunrise
over the fields of time.
.
You are the cock's crow when night is done,
you are the dew and the bells of matins,
maiden, stranger, mother, death.
.
You create yourself in ever-changing shapes
that rise from the stuff of our days -
unsung, unmourned, undescribed,
like a forest we never know.
.
You are the deep innerness of all things,
the last word that can never be spoken.
To each of us you reveal yourself differently:
to the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.
.
~ Rainer Maria Rilke
from The Book of Pilgrimage, II,22
.
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