To Music Poem
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps:
silence of paintings. You language where all language
ends. You time
standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.
Feelings for whom? O you the transformation
of feelings into what?–: into audible landscape.
You stranger: music. You heart-space
grown out of us. The deepest space in us,
which, rising above us, forces its way out,–
when the innermost point in us stands
outside, as the most practiced distance, as the other
side of the air:
no longer habitable.