The Beggar's Song

Always I go from gate to gate
rained on, scorched by the sun,
suddenly I press my right ear
into my right hand.
And now my own voice comes to me
as if I'd never known it.

So that I'm not certain who's crying out,
I or someone else.
I cry for a pittance.
The poets cry for more.

At last I close my face
by closing both my eyes,
lying so heavily in my hand
it almost looks like rest.
So they won't think I hadn't
a place to lay my head.

~Rilke.

Waiting for notification. The Letter From The College, and other things, too.

APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.