Night, so still,
where things entirely white
and things of red and all colors of the rainbow
are lifted into the one stillness
of one darkness —
bring me as well
to immersion in the Many.

Is my mind too taken with light?
If my face were not visible,
would I still feel separate from other things?

Look at my hands:
Don’t they lie there like tools?
Doesn’t the ring on that finger
look just like itself? Does not the light
lie upon them with such trust —
as if knowing they are the very same
when held in darkness.

— Rilke, Book of Images