“Being an artist means,
not reckoning and counting, but ripening
like the tree
which does not force its sap
and stands confident
in the storms of spring, without the fear
that after them may come no summer.”
— Rainer Maria Rilke
How strange
How strange
To come back to a place
Where your roots grew
But never set,
Where your soul lies
But never rests.
How strange
To come back to a place
Where no one can
Call you by name,
Where people laugh
But never change.
How strange
To come back to a place
Where you belong
But never stayed.
Is it my place ?
I cannot say.
From memories,
One sings
And laughs, and hurts
Sometimes
But to come back...
To come back
Is to open your favourite book
Where its pages were torn. —
“It does come. But it comes
only to the patient,
who are there as though eternity lay before them,
so unconcernedly still and wide.
I learn it daily, learn it with pain
to which I am grateful:
patience is everything!”
