The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Entrance

Rainer Maria Rilke

Whoever you are: step out when night is near,
out of your room where everything is sure;
your house is now infinity’s frontier:
whoever you are.
With eyes exhausted by the constant sight
of boundaries already too well-known,
you slowly lift a tree into the night
and fix it in the heavens: black, alone.
And you have made the world. And it is vast
And like a word that ripens silently
And when your will has grasped its sense at last,
Your eyes will gently shut and set it free.

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