The poem
Music: breathing of statues. Perhaps: silence of paintings. You language where all language ends. You time standing vertically on the motion of mortal hearts.
Feelings for whom? O you the transformation of feelings into what?--: into audible landscape. You stranger: music. You heart-space grown out of us. The deepest space in us, which, rising above us, forces its way out,-- holy departure: when the innermost point in us stands outside, as the most practiced distance, as the other side of the air: pure, boundless, no longer habitable.
its a wonderful poem
Abandon suroundings abandon,
tenderness touching tenderness...
Your oneness endlessly
caresses itself, so they say;
self caressing
through its own clear reflection.
Thus you invent the theme
of narcissus fulfilled.
-Rainer Maria Rilke
He puts feelings into words, its touching