a man can follow him through the narrow
lyre. The human self is split; where
two heartways cross, there is no temple to Apollo.
Song, as you teach it, is not desire, not
a wooing of something that’s finally attained;
song is existence. Easy for the god. But
when do we exist? And when does he spend
the earth and the stars on our being?
When we love? That’s what you think when
you’re young,
not so, though your voice forces open your
mouth, -
learn to forget how you sang. That fades.
Real singing is a different kind of breath.
A nothing-breath. A ripple in the god. A wind.
(From Rilke’s Sonnets to Orpheus.)