All drawings untitled 2004
Complaint
To whom, heart, would you complain? Ever more unfrequented
your way grapples on through incomprehensible
human kind. All the more vainly perhaps
for keeping to its direction,
direction towards the future,
the future that's lost.
Before. You complained? What was it? A fallen
berry of joy, an unripe one.
But now it's my tree of joy that is breaking,
what breaks in the gale is my slow
tree of joy.
Loveliest in my invisible
landscape, you that brought me more close to the
ken of angels, invisible.
Rilke
