2007/06/22
Possibility of Being / Rainer Maria Rilke
This is the creature there has never been.
They never knew it, and yet, none the less,
They loved the way it moved, its suppleness,
its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.
Not there, because they loved it,
it behaved as though it were.
They always left some space.
And in that clear unpeopled space they
saved it lightly reared its head,
with scarce a trace of not being there.
They fed it, not with corn, but only with
the possibility of being.
And that was able to confer such strength,
its brow put forth a horn. One horn.
Whitely it stole up to a maid—
to be within the silver mirror and in her.
They never knew it, and yet, none the less,
They loved the way it moved, its suppleness,
its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.
Not there, because they loved it,
it behaved as though it were.
They always left some space.
And in that clear unpeopled space they
saved it lightly reared its head,
with scarce a trace of not being there.
They fed it, not with corn, but only with
the possibility of being.
And that was able to confer such strength,
its brow put forth a horn. One horn.
Whitely it stole up to a maid—
to be within the silver mirror and in her.
