Kunst: Rainer Maria Rilke

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Kleine Motten taumeln schauernd quer aus dem Buchs;

sie sterben heute Abend und werden nie wissen,

daß es nicht Frühling war.

Small moths tumble shivering out of the boxwood;

they will die this evening and never know

that it wasn’t spring.

~~~~~

Ich bins, Nachtigall, ich, den du singst,

hier, mir im Herzen, wird diese Stimme Gewalt

nicht länger vermeidlich.

It is I, Nightingale, whom you sing,

here, in my heart, this song becomes a force

no longer avoidable.

Rilke_Signature

____________________

Photography from the ever-talented sister, again. Yes, that is where I live. Vermont is amazing.

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