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