quinta-feira, dezembro 19, 2013

I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough/ to make every moment holy./ I am too tiny in this world, and not tiny enough/ just to lie before you like a thing,/ shrewd and secretive./ I want my own will, and I want simply to be with my will,/ as it goes toward action;/ and in those quiet, sometimes hardly moving times,/ when something is coming near,/ I want to be with those who know secret things/ or else alone./ I want to be a mirror for your whole body,/ and I never want to be blind, or to be too old/ to hold up your heavy and swaying picture./ I want to unfold./ I don’t want to stay folded anywhere,/ because where I am folded, there I am a lie./ and I want my grasp of things to be/ true before you. I want to describe myself/ like a painting that I looked at/ closely for a long time,/ like a saying that I finally understood,/ like the pitcher I use every day,/ like the face of my mother,/ like a ship/ that carried me/ through the wildest storm of all. Rilke

4 comentários:

Anónimo disse...

de que obra é?

Sr Joao disse...

Book of Hours

Anónimo disse...

Obrig.

Sr Joao disse...

De nada.