Nearly everything stretches out into a touch,
from any bend you hear murmurs: remember!
The day that indifferents we went past
will open itself as a gift the day after.

Who will count our fruits?
Who will divide us from our spent years?
Which original experience we lived
makes the beings to acknowledge each others?

The indifferent things to get warmer in us?
House, downhill meadow, evening light,
suddenly you nearly become a vision,
closer come and embraced you embrace us.

(R. M. Rilke, Scattered poetries)