You are the future,
The red sky before sunrise
Over the fields of time.

You are the cock’s crow when night is done,
You are the dew & the bells of matins,
Maiden, stranger, mother, death.

You create yourself in ever-changing shapes
That rise from the stuff of our days —
Unsung, unmourned, undescribed,
Like a forest we never knew.

You are the deep innerness of all things
The last word that can never be spoken,
To each of us you reveal yourself differently:
To the ship as coastline, to the shore as a ship.
~ R.M. Rilke ~

From the Book of Hours (II.22)


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