The Panther, by Rilke
The Panther
His gaze from staring through the bars,
Has grown so weary,
That it can take in nothing more for him.
It is though there were a thousand bars,
And behind the thousand bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
His powerful strides are like a ritual dance around a centre,
Where a great wheel stands paralysed.
At times the quickness of the eye lifts without a sound,
And a shape enters,
Slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders,
Reaches the heart and dies.
His gaze from staring through the bars,
Has grown so weary,
That it can take in nothing more for him.
It is though there were a thousand bars,
And behind the thousand bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
His powerful strides are like a ritual dance around a centre,
Where a great wheel stands paralysed.
At times the quickness of the eye lifts without a sound,
And a shape enters,
Slips through the tightened silence of the shoulders,
Reaches the heart and dies.