I'd like, above all, to be one of those
who drive with the wild black horses through the night,
torches like hair uplifted in affright
when the great wind of their wild hunting blows.
I'd like to stand in the front as in a boat,
tall, like a long floating flag unrolled.
And dark, but with a helmet made of gold,
restlessly flashing. And behind to ride
ten other looming figures side by side,
with helmets all unstable like my own,
now clear as glass, now old and blank like stone.
And one to stand by me and blow us space
with the brass trumpet that can blaze and blare,
blowing a black solitude through which we tear
like dreams that speed to fast to leave a trace.
Houses behind us fall upon their knees,
alleys cringe crookedly before our train,
squares in flight; we summon and we seize:
we ride, and our great horses rush like rain.
(translated from Rainer Maria Rilke)
No comments:
Post a Comment