I,55
October 1, 2008
The poets have scattered you.
A storm ripped through the stammering.
I want to gather you up again
in a vessel that makes you glad.
I wander in the thousand winds
that you are churning,
and bring back everything I find.
The blind man needed you as a cup.
The servant concealed you.
The beggar held you out as I passed.
You see, I am one who likes to look for things.
I am one who, barely noticed,
like a shepherd
comes up from behind…
One who dreams of making you complete,
and in that way completes himself.
-Rilke, The Book of a Monastic Life
