Just imagine: what for you now is sky and wind,
air to breathe and light to see,
becomes stone right up to the little space
made by my heart and hands.
And what you now call tomorrow and
soon and next year and after that —
becomes an open wound, full of pus.
It festers and never drains.
And what has been
becomes a madness.
It rages and mocks within you,
twisting your mouth with crazed laughter.
And what had been God
becomes your jailer
and blocks with his filthy eye
your last escape.
And still you live.
— Rilke, New Poems