“We are close to waking when we dream that we are dreaming.”
The pathway is a silver river
into a place where sight is not seeing,
and the walls are made of gold,
all that is gold are not walls,
they are smooth but they are honey
there is no hurry to move
but to move is to dive
into waters that do not ripple
and yet colors appear
a fan as of feathers unfolds
it is gold but it is alive
each feather has an eye
of blue or of green
and shadows forget their darkness
in the light without a sun
and the bright blush of red
becomes gold and more gold
before the silver river
until the eyes are opened.
Some paths lead into darkness,
anguish may linger as a companion.
Let all tears be scattered to naught,
when, at long last, from a distance,
silence, essence of blue wind,
word unspeakable, you approach.
If there is no more room in me for sorrow,
will you take joy as a gift from my hands?
Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...
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