"I read it in your word, learn it from the story
of those gestures with which your hands
cupped themselves around each fledgling thing—
warm, encompassing, wise.
You pronounced live
strongly and die
and ceaselessly repeated: Be
But before the first death murder came.
With a rent tore through your perfect circles
and a scream broke in
and scattered all those voices
that had just then come together
to sing to you,
to carry you about,
their bridge over all abysses—
And what they have been stammering since
of your ancient name."
— Rainer Maria Rilke, from The Book of Hours, trans. Edward Snow