It feels as though I make my own way
through massive rock
like a vein of ore
I am so deep inside it
I can’t see the path or any distance:
everything is close
and everything closing in on me
has turned to stone.
Since I still don’t know enough about pain,
this terrible darkness makes me small.
If it’s you, though —
press down hard on me, break in
that I may know the weight of your hand
and you, the fullness of my cry.
— Rilke, The Book of Hours III, 1