Sunday, September 19, 2010

can't see the path or any distance

It feels as though I make my way 
through massive rock
like a vain of ore
alone, encased.

I am so deep inside it
I can't see the path or any distance:
everything us close
and everything closing in on me
has turned to stone.

Since I still don't know enough about pain,
this terrible darkness makes me small.
If it's you, though -

press down hard on me, break in
that I may know the weight of your hand,
and you, the fullness of my cry.

Rainer Maria Rilke
The Book of Poverty and Death III,1
translated by Joanna Macy and Anita Barrows
(See interview with Joanna Macy)