I was skimming through Rainer Maria Rilke's Book of Hours this morning and found myself drawn to the following poem. These verses, which Rilke wrote in 1903, describe with stunning precision the world as I know it today.
The cities only care for what is theirs
and uproot all that's in their path.
They crush the creatures like hollow sticks
and burn up nations like kindling.
Their people serve the culture of the day,
losing all balance and moderation,
calling their aimlessness progress,
driving recklessly where they once drove slow,
and with all that metal and glass
making such a racket.
It's as if they were under a spell:
they can no longer be themselves.
Money keeps growing, takes all their strength,
and empties them like a scouring wind,
while they wait for wine and poisonous passions
to spur them to fruitless occupations.
A Fond Farewell - Hear ye, hear ye, the end is here. I mean, the end of the Gold Puppy blog. I've been thinking about it for awhile now, wondering what in the hell I'm do...
3 years ago