Your poetry begets music, but
only to the poor.
The poor hear each note of hunger
upon their wanderings; whether city, or fields,
or highways off the desert roads, the poor
shall always hear these tattered tunes
laying threadbare, frayed at the heel
Your Russian journeys lead you to God,
unbeknownst, an intimate encounter,
your sensitivities swirling within your soul
as you reel it all in, as a fisherman wrenches
his load from the nets of starvation.
Your soulful lingering does you no harm.
Listen, can you hear the whimpering
of little children, of mothers, and lovers,
and peoples, everywhere?
Their derelict voices heard only by angels.
You, oh Rainer, speak to the trees, the leaves, why
even the city walls that speak of impoverishment
rising from the streets of stone. Praise Rilke!
Praise God, for in the nights of dark bitterness
await comfort to the poor in spirit,
those who never knew shall not know
until stripped naked before the courts
of the earthly attire.
Praise Rainer Maria Rilke, for your every word.