Rilke, Das Buch der Bilder (1902–1906; The Book of Pictures)
Lord, it is time. The summer was very long.
Now let your shadow fall across the dials,
and let the winds blow down the halls.
Instruct the final fruits to ripen;
give them yet two more days of warmth,
urge them toward fullness and chase
the final sweetness into the heavy wine.
Who has no house now, has no more time to build one.
Who is now alone, will remain so a long time,
will lie awake, read, write long letters
and will restlessly wander up and down
the lanes, while the leaves are drifting.
Insomniac passing anhypnic nights in writing, translation, music, mathematics, programming and whatever else captures my attention or alleviates agrypnia.
This consists mostly of quotations of things that stand out to me or reflect what's on my mind; occasionally I also post original, often more personal, content as well, which may be found under the "personal" tag. Anything posted under "translations" is also original work and may broadly be taken as personal as well as I seldom tackle a work that does not speak to or for me in some way.