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TO MUSIC
Music. The breathing of statues. Perhaps:
The silence of pictures. You, language where all
languages end. You, time
standing straight up out of the direction
of hearts passing away.
Feeling, for whom? O you, transformation
of feeling into what?— into audible landscape.
Music: you stranger. Heartspace which
has outgrown us. Our most inner being,
transcending, driven out of us,—
sacred separation:
and our Innerworld surrounds us
as the most practiced of things afar, as
the other side of air:
pure,
immense
no longer habitable.
Rainer Maria Rilke, unpublished poems (Nachlass, An die Musik)
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