The breath of a statue.
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:
where we can no longer live.
Rilke, To music