Saturday, April 18, 2015

Areté

From this niche, my eyes follow
the swarming of the white bees,
an errant swirl of snowflakes
chased by a singing wind.

All day long, words are gathering.
They flee away from my fingers
and tangle in the willow branches,
before fluttering across the globe.

I wait for news, until, after dark,
Areté, wearing her silvery cloak,
holds a lamp to veiled inscriptions
still eluding my interpretation.









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all is translation (and every bit of us is lost in it)

Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...

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