You, mountain, here since mountains began,
slopes where nothing is built,
peaks that no one has named,
eternal snows littered with stars,
valleys in flower
offering fragrances of earth. . . .
Do I move inside you now?
Am I within the rock
like a metal that hasn’t been mined?
Your hardness encloses me everywhere. . . .
Or is it fear
I am caught in? The tightening fear
of the swollen cities
in which I suffocate?
— Rilke, The Book of Hours III, 2