MUSIC, Rilke
Take me by the hand;
it's so easy for you, Angel,
for you are the road
even while being immobile.
You see, I'm scared no one
here will look for me again;
I couldn't make use of
whatever was given,
so they abandoned me.
At first the solitude
charmed me like a prelude,
but so much music wounded me.
Translated by A. Poulin
**********
Poet
A poet has no rivals,
neither in life or in destiny.
And when he cries out to the world,
it's not about you, but about himself!
He raises his fragile arms up to heaven,
he loses, drop by drop, life and strength;
he pines away, he asks forgiveness...
He doesn't do it for you, but for himself!
But when he reaches the end
and his soul takes flight in the darkness
— the field just crossed, the labour just concluded —,
you decide: for what and for who!
Either be the honey, or be the bitter cup,
either be the infernal fire, or be the temple...
All that was his, is yours now.
All is for you. Dedicated to you!
Dedicated to you!