Whether it be the singing of a lamp or the voice of a storm, whether it be the breath of an evening or the groan of the ocean - whatever surrounds you, a broad melody always wakes behind you, woven out of a thousand voices, where there is room for your own solo only here and there. To know when you need to join in: that is the secret of your solitude: just as the art of true interactions with others is to let yourself fall away from high words into a single common melody.
Listen, love, I lift my hands—
listen: there’s a rustling…
What gesture of those all alone
might not be eavesdropped on by many things?
Listen, love, I close my eyes,
and even that makes sounds to reach you.
Listen, love, I open them…
…but why are you not here?
The imprint of my smallest motion
remains visible in the silken silence;
indestructibly the least excitement
is stamped into the distance’s taut curtain.
On my breathing the stars
rise and set.
At my lips fragrances come to drink,
and I recognize the wrists
of distant angels.
Only her of whom I think: You
I cannot see.