Thursday, March 13, 2014

being lived

And yet, though we strain against the deadening grip
of daily necessity,
I sense there is this mystery:

All life is being lived.  

Who is living it then?

Is it the things themselves,
or something waiting 
inside them,
like an unplayed melody
in a flute?

Is it winds blowing over the waters?

Is it the branches that signal to each other?

Is it flowers
interweaving their fragrances,
or streets 
as they wind through time...

Rainer Maria Rilke