The Panther

His gaze, as it should be, is like a circle, And in the middle lies a world of pain. The bars are not a prison, and his heart Needs more than mere desire to be free.

With endless grace, he moves; his stride Is barely more than silence grafted to air. In this small space inside this heavy cage, He learns of light that blinds behind the bars.

Unspeakably, his eyes grow dim, like dusk, His soul within is growing weary, night And savage darkness hold him like a dream. A breath turns heavy like a storm.

The world outside is spun with every color. But he — so still he waits — a whisper, wings. All things would be a deluge of sweet peace, But here the bars care for our restless times.

• Rainer Maria Rilke