In answer to your tree, your red scarf, winter, the horizon: I pause slowly, I tremble, as if hovering before a painting with a pulse.
In such a wide space has the oak of my solitude stretched its limbs, the horizon has become a matter of climbing or descending, and depends upon the angle of the shadows. The longer the silences, the more often an unseen conductor in my spine has lifted his baton, after which strings were plucked, wind instruments resonated, cymbals clashed, and melodies appeared, lyrics rising, ready for my pen.
But today I have somehow become as a small wave dashed upon the rocks, again and yet, coincidentally, again, upon the words of your letter.
If you only knew--your delight should mostly dwell within yourself, for you knew not who you were until you recognized some reflection in my words, of your own soul.
A particular, an uncommon star, rising in the Eastern sky above the dusty vineyard tonight, bears your name.
Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...
popular on this site
Alexander Scriabin: the Poem of Ecstasy (English translation by Faubion Bowers) (See the original here .) Spirit, Winged with the...
There is a song clinging like a drowsy bat to the dingy ceiling of a dungeon, deep within the labyrinthine palace of my memories, a melody...
A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...