The straight irons within the cage, his eyes blinded. No longer remembers.
Multiply the bars, a hundred, a thousand:
but behind those bars, is the void, nothingness.
supple bounce in the steps
heavy turns around within the enclosed,
The impetus seems to dance around a center,
where a will is not huge.
Only, sometimes, on the arid pupil
silent, a veil is lifted, and burst
an image in it, and so long whale
the silence of the limbs outstretched
to fade, fast, deep in my heart.
RM Rilke, The Panther.
Who knows what the picture shows on the dry apple .. Who knows.
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