We're living just as the century begins.
A great leaf, that God and we
shall cover with our writing
turns now, overhead, in strange hands.
We feel the sweep of it like a wind.
We see the brightness of a new page
where everything yet can happen.
Unmoved by us, the fates take its measure
and look at one another, saying nothing.
And we write.
(Following Rilke's poem I,8 in his 'Book of Hours')
Michael Shepherd
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0106-to-rilke-from-poemhunters/
