Rose

Rilke & Roses

Where is there for this inner an outer?

Upon which hurt does one lay such fine linen?

And which heavens are reflected within them, upon the interior seas of these open roses, these carefree ones; see:

how loose in looseness

they lie, as if a trembling hand

could never tip them over.

They can hardly hold themselves

erect; many allow themselves

be filled all too full and flow

over from inner space

into the days, which, ever

more and more full, close in upon themselves,

until the entire summer becomes

a chamber, a chamber in a dream.

Rainer Maria Rilke, the Inner Rose