Im Jardin Des Plantes, Paris (Rilke Translation) Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

His eyes, from looking at the passing iron bars
have tired and no images will hold
he feels as if there were a thousand bars
albeit behind them no reality at all.

The supple grace of lightly treading steps
endless gyrations of the smallest kind
a dance of strength encircling a core
which holds, subdued and numb a mighty will.

Brief moments when the pupil's curtains slide
an image passes, silently, inside
goes through the quiet of the body's lissome limbs
and finds its final rest inside the creature's heart.