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