Torn open by us again and again,
the god is the place that heals.
We're jagged, because we want to know,
but he is scattered and serene
Even the pure, the consecrated gift
he takes into his world no other way
than this: standing unmoved
opposite the open end.
Only the dead drink
from the spring heard here by us, --
when the god signals to them silently, the dead.
To us just the noise is given.
And out of quieter instinct
the god is the place that heals.
We're jagged, because we want to know,
but he is scattered and serene
Even the pure, the consecrated gift
he takes into his world no other way
than this: standing unmoved
opposite the open end.
Only the dead drink
from the spring heard here by us, --
when the god signals to them silently, the dead.
To us just the noise is given.
And out of quieter instinct
the lamb begs for its bell.
by Rainer Maria Rilke (translated from the German by Edward Snow)
For more information about the poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, see:
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