Treasures: Bowl of Roses
Rainer Maria Rilke.
You saw two angry, evil boys,
burning like fire, woven into a knot,
that rolled on the ground in hatred,
like a beast pursued by a swarm of bees;
actors, wild buffoons,
wounded mad horses, -
such a grin of teeth was sticking out from among them,
that the skull was about to jump out of the mouth.
But you learned how to forget about everything:
before you is the cup of perfection,
its fullness of blooming roses:
all that comes from existence,
not giving himself to us, but leaning towards us,
She lives to belong to us.
Silence of being, all-dissolution,
borrow space - not one thing, another, -
space that things don't need at all, -
almost undefined, boundless,
and everything is inside, everything is rare tenderness
and self-illumination to the brim:
similar - where can you meet?
What a feeling there is,
where do the petals touch each other?
Look: one, like an eyelid, is slightly open,
and further, deeper, the eyelids doze again,
they came together and tenfold
as if someone's eyes were eclipsed.
But through the curtain of these petals
light passes through, flowing straight from the sky.
They filter a drop of heavenly darkness,
that hotly burns the cluster of stamens,
giving birth to a desire to rise in them.
And there is movement in the roses - look:
their gestures have a small angle of deviation,
he would be invisible, but for the radiance
spreads like a crown throughout the entire universe.
Look at the white one - she is in bliss
opened wide with petals,
like Venus rising from the water;
and the one who is blushing is embarrassed
and so easily inclined towards the insensitive one,
who doesn't even want to know about it,
and there it is - it is completely cold
among the blossoming and almost fallen ones.
What has fallen is heavy and light,
it is like a cloak, like a burden and like wings,
and maybe it could become a mask,
and falls, as if before a lover.
They could have been everything: this yellow one,
a type of peel that has recently
still tightly clothed the body
fruit with orange-bloody juice.
And it was so difficult for this one to blossom,
that its pinkness – it has no name –
acquired a lilac bitterness.
Batiste - maybe it is
a delicate shirt got lost in a dress
after they were picked together
in a lonely bathhouse at dawn?
And this one here is opal porcelain.
Chinese cup, just as fragile,
he swarms like bright butterflies,
and in that one - it is contained alone.
And they are all filled with themselves,
for being full of oneself means:
the whole outside world, and the rain, and the sadness, and the wind,
spring reflection, flight and anxiety,
and the call of fate, and the darkness of the evening earth,
the rise of clouds and their transformation,
and the misty breath of distant stars –
concentrate everything in a handful within yourself.
And here it lies in the open roses.
