death

There stands death, a bluish distillate

in a cup without a saucer.  Such a strange

place to find a cup: standing on

the back of a hand.  One recognizes clearly

the line along the glazed curve, where the handle

snapped.  Covered with dust.  And HOPE is written

across the side, in faded Gothic letters.

The man who was to drink out of that cup

read it aloud at breakfast, long ago.

What kind of beings are they then,

who finally must be scared away by poison?

Otherwise would they stay here? Would they keep

chewing so foolishly on their own frustration?

The hard present moment must be pulled

out of them, like a set of false teeth.  Then

they mumble.  They go on mumbling, mumbling...

O shooting star

that fell into my eyes and through my body -:

Not to forget you.  To endure.

~ Rainer Maria Rilke

from Uncollected Poems

translated by Stephen Mitchell