The laboring through what is still undone
as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,
is like the awkward walking of the swan.
And dying-to let go no longer feel
the solid ground we stand on every day-
is like his anxious letting himself fall
into the water, which receives him gently
and which, as though with reverence and joy
draws back past him in streams on either side;
while, infinitely silent and aware
in his full majesty and ever more
indifferent he condescends to glide.
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