. . .
When he, whose vocation was Waiting, sat far from home -
the hotel’s distracted unnoticing bedroom
moody around him, and in the avoided mirror
once more the room, and later
from the tormenting bed
once more:
the in the air the voices
discussed, beyond comprehension,
his heart, which could still be felt;
debated what through the painfully buried body
could somehow be felt – his heart;
debated and passed their judgment;
that it did not have love.
. . . .
Work of the eyes is done, now
go and do heart work
on all the images imprisoned within you; for you
overpowered them; bet even now you don’t know them.
. . . .
From “Turning Point” by Rainer Maria Rilke, S. Mitchell trans.
