We're living just as the century begins.
A great leaf, that God and we
shall cover with our writing
turns now, overhead, in strange hands.
We feel the sweep of it like a wind.
We see the brightness of a new page
where everything yet can happen.
Unmoved by us, the fates take its measure
and look at one another, saying nothing.
And we write.
(Following Rilke's poem I,8 in his 'Book of Hours')
Oh yes, this is really how it is. That pure white sheet of paper ready to be filled with dreams, tears, and laughter. Thanks for this. Raynette
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's a very beautiful poem, Michael Shepherd. Let's get to know eachoter. I will send you some poems. We can get to know eachother through our poetry.