The Prisoner (I)

My hand has one gesture left:
to push things away.
From the rock dampness drips
on old stones.

This dripping is all I can hear.
My heart keeps pace
with the drops falling
and sinks away with them.

If the drops fell faster
an animal might come to drink.
Somewhere it is brighter than this —
but what do we know.

–Rilke, New Poems

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