Why am I reaching again for the brushes?
When I paint your portrait, God,
nothing happens.
But I can choose to feel you.
At my senses' horizon
you appear hesitantly,
like scattered islands.
Yet standing here, peering out,
I'm all the time seen by you.
The choruses of angels use up all of heaven.
There's no more room for you
in all that glory. You're living
in your very last house.
All creation holds its breath
listening within me,
because, to hear you
I keep silent.
from the Book of Hours
3 comments:
This is lovely. Thank you for posting it.
Oh, and yes, I write (unpublished so far) novels. It is the truest vocation I have in my life, the one thing that feels like the reason I was created.
Wow. Gorgeous. LOVE Rilke.
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