Music.
The breath of a statue.
Or, perhaps:
the silence of a painting. The words beyond
where all words end. Time
at a true right angle to
the transience of the heart.

A feeling? For whom? No, no, a feeling
moving, changing. To what? To a landscape you can hear.
Oh, stranger: music. You grow
from the home of our heart.
Our inmost, yes, but our over-rising too:
our giving birth. Our numinous goodbye.
In you our inside depth surrounds us
like a skilful distance, like
the other side of the sky:
pure,
immeasurable,
where we can no longer live.

 

Rilke, To music

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