07 August 2011
Single.
How shall I withhold my soul
so that it does not touch on yours?
How shall I uplift it over yours to other things?
Ah, willingly would I by some lost thing in the dark
Give it harbor in an unfamiliar, silent place
That does not vibrate on when your depths vibrate.
Yet, everything that touches us, you and me,
Takes us together as a bow's stroke does,
That out of two strings draws a single voice.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what player has us in his hand?
O sweet song.
- Rainer Maria Rilke
Labels:
art,
daily life,
poetry
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