July 13, 2006
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Rainer Maria Rilke
His vision, from the constantly passing bars
has grown so weary that it cannot hold
anything else. It seems to him there are
a thousand bars; no world.
As he passes, in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly. — An image enters in,
rushes down the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
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