"And she leads him gently through the wide landscape of Lament,

shows him the columns of temples, the ruins

of castles, from which the lords of Lament

ruled the land, wisely. Shows him the tall

Tear-trees, and the fields of flowering Sadness,

(The living know it as only a tender shrub.)

shows him the herds of Grief, grazing – and sometimes

a startled bird, flying low through their upward glance,

will inscribe on the far distance the written form of its lonely cry –

At evening she leads him to the graves of the elders

of the race of Laments, the sibyls and prophets.

But as night falls, so they move more softly, and soon,

like a moon, the all-guarding

sepulchre rises. Brother to that of the Nile,

the tall Sphinx, the secret chamber’s




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Beautiful! The marriage of Rilke and your photography is perfect. Such whimsicality and mysterious metaphor is a delightful treasure. Can't wait for New York!
-- Julien, 11/20/09

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