This weekend is beautiful, filled with sunshine and warmth. The greens that only a week ago were so shy, now show themselves in exuberance and provocation. What warm weather can do in such a short time. On the early morning of a weekend like this you also meet the walkers and the runners, individually or in a club, chattering as they run. The tourbikers in their lycra outfits. Later in the morning the other cyclists show up; mostly senior citizens or families with small children. The woodland area and the meadows on either side of the river Dommel north of Eindhoven and the moors south of the city are filled with their sounds and presence. People take out their picnic baskets. A family with small children is flying kites. Later in the afternoon the terraces fill up with people enjoying these lovely days in the sunshine.
A pretty, recognizable summer picture of people enjoying social activities.
In all these activities, today the picture in the window of a shop is hardly noticable. I spot it just before I leave Eindhoven. It intrigues me and I look it up on the internet. It appears to be a poen by Rainer Maria Rilke, “Du im voraus”. I give you the English translation, which I really like.
Sometimes that which is not there, is bigger that anything you can see. Sometimes the expectation or recognition of that what can be, is more beautiful than the prettiest picture.
You, beloved, who were lost
before the beginning, who never came,
I do not know which sounds might be precious to you.
No longer do I try to recognize you, when, as a surging wave,
something is about to manifest. All the huge
images in me, the deeply-sensed far-away landscapes,
cities and towers and bridges and un-
suspected turns of the path,
the powerful life of lands
once filled with the presence of gods:
all rise with you to find clear meaning in me,
your, forever, elusive one.
You, who are all
the gardens I’ve ever looked upon,
full of promise. An open window
in a country house—, and you almost stepped
towards me, thoughtfully. Sidestreets I happened upon,—
you had just passed through them,
and sometimes, in the small shops of sellers, the mirrors
were still dizzy with you and gave back, frightened,
my too sudden form.—Who is to say if the same
bird did not resound through us both
yesterday, separate, in the evening? – See more at: http://picture-poems.com/rilke/uncollected.html#You