I am blind, you out there -- that is a curse, <br />against one's will, a contradiction, <br />a heavy daily burden. <br />I lay my hand on the arm of my wife, <br />my grey hand upon her greyer grey, <br />as she guides me through empty spaces. <br /> <br />You move about and stir, and imagine <br />your sounds differing from stone to stone. <br />But you are mistaken: I alone <br />live and suffer and complain, for <br />in me is an endless crying, <br />and I do not know whether it is <br />my heart that cries or my bowels. <br /> <br />Do you recognize these songs? You never sang them, <br />not quite with this intonation. <br />For you every morning brings its new light <br />warm through your open windows. <br />And you have the feeling from face to face <br />that tempts you to be indulgent. <br /> <br /> <br />Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming<br /><br />Rainer Maria Rilke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-song-of-the-blindman/
