rilke

[elionwyr]

(from "Improvisations of the Caprisian Winter")

3
So many things lie torn open
by rash hands that arrived too late,
in search of you: they wanted to know.

And sometimes in an old book
an incomprehensible passage is underlined.
You were there, once. What has become of you?

If somebody held you, you broke him,
his heart remained open, and you weren't inside;
if anyone ever addressed you,
it was with a breathless: Where are you going?

It happened to me, too. Except I asked nothing of you.
I simply serve, and have no case to plead.
Waiting patiently, I hold the willing glance
of my face in the wind of the days
and never complain of the nights...
(because I see they know)