L'homme qui marche, by Auguste Rodin
photo by Adam Rzepka
Oh, the pleasure of it, always emerging new
from the loosened clay. Those who dared to come first
had hardly any help. Nevertheless cities arose
on sun-favored coasts, and pitchers filled with water and oil.
Gods: we picture them first in wild brushstrokes
which petty Fate keeps wiping away.
But gods don't die. Let us listen to them:
they will be there to hear us at the end.
We are one generation through thousands of years,
mothers and fathers shaped by children to come,
who, in their turn, will overtake them.
We are endlessly offered into life: all time is ours.
And what any one of us might be worth,
death alone knows—and does not tell.
Sonnets to Orpheus II, 24