The Panther

His gaze, from his side, has become so weary that it seems to be the only thing holding him, in a world of escapes. And he must unfurl his thoughts until he can no longer catch anything but those bars, that are loose and never allow him true freedom or rest. Only suddenly he feels that the prey is slipping by, a glance that holds the rapid dream, a sound that offers his heart.

And evening comes, the trees turn gold, there, through the cage, the jungle roams: pale blue horizons slope away and the stars are suddenly far, like unheard breath upon his quiet.

• Rainer Maria Rilke