The Swan

The poem

This laboring through what is still undone, as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way, is like the akward walking of the swan.

And dying-to let go, no longer feel the solid ground we stand on every day- is like anxious letting himself fall

into waters, which receive him gently and which, as though with reverence and joy, draw back past him in streams on either side; while, infinitely silent and aware, in his full majesty and ever more indifferent, he condescends to glide.