Saturday, September 23, 2006

idiot's song

They don't bother me. They let me go my way.
They say that nothing can happen.
How nice.
Nothing can happen. Everything comes and circles
forever around the Holy Ghost,
around that certain ghost (you know)-,
how nice.

No, one truly mustn't think that there's
anything dangerous in this.
Of course, that's the blood.
The blood is the heaviest thing. The blood is heavy.
Sometimes I think I can't go on any more-,
(How nice.)

Ah, what is this a pretty ball;
red and round like an overall,
Nice, that you made it.
Will it come when one calls?

How all of this names itself rare,
driven together, flowing apart:
friendly, a bit uncertain.
How nice.

I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough
to make every hour holy.
I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough
just to stand before you like a thing,
just as it is.
I want my will, and I want to be with my will
as it moves toward deed;
and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times
when something is approaching,
I want to be with those who are wise,
or else alone.
I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being,
and never to be too blind or too old
to hold your heavy swaying image.
I want to unfold
Nowhere do I want to remain
because where I am bend .....

this is a lousy translation, maybe done by a computer. No use copying in the rest of it. It's from Rilke's Book of Hours.

It was a nice day and we worked on Tekki Sandan, which is one of the trickier forms.

No comments: