Tuesday, May 16, 2017

though we strain




And yet, though we strain
against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:

All life is being lived.

Who is living it then?
Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting inside them,
like an unplayed melody in a flute?
Is it the winds blowing over the waters?
Is it the branches that signal to each other?

Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances
or streets, as they wind through time?



~ Rainer Maria Rilke
(from: Book of Hours, translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)


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