Musing on Rilke

He was not the poet the age desired.

Chiselling at languages layers,

Probing deeper than meaning,

peeling at the deep layers.

Not the prophet, the age sought.

Seeing, searching beyond the visible.

Giving ghosts forms, the formless foundation.

Tortured, tormented, not the angels the age desired.

To put in words, what words cannot grasp.

Brought down by a rose,

pure contradiction.