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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=481205" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Seele Im Raum</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It sat between my husband and my children. <br>A place was set for it—a plate of greens. <br>It had been there: I had seen it <br>But not somehow—but this was like a dream— <br>Not seen it so that I knew I saw it. <br>It was as if I could not know I saw it <br>Because I had never once in all my life <br>Not seen it. It was an eland. <br>An eland! That is why the children <br>Would ask my husband, for a joke, at Christmas: <br>“Father, is it Donner?” He would say, “No, Blitzen.” <br>It had been there always. Now we put silver <br>At its place at meals, fed it the same food <br>We ourselves ate, and said nothing. Many times <br>When it breathed heavily (when it had tried <br>A long useless time to speak) and reached to me <br>So that I touched it—of a different size <br>And order of being, like the live hard side <br>Of a horse’s neck when you pat the horse— <br>And looked with its great melting tearless eyes <br>Fringed with a few coarse wire-like lashes <br>Into my eyes, and whispered to me <br>So that my eyes turned backward in their sockets <br>And they said nothing— <br>many times <br>I have known, when they said nothing, <br>That it did not exist. If they had heard <br>They could not have been silent. And yet they heard; <br>Heard many times what I have spoken <br>When it could no longer speak, but only breathe— <br>When I could no longer speak, but only breathe. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And, after some years, the others came <br>And took it from me—it was ill, they told me— <br>And cured it, they wrote me: my whole city <br>Sent me cards lilac-branches, mourning <br>As I had mourned— <br>and I was standing <br>By a grave in flowers, by dyed rolls of turf, <br>And a canvas marquee the last brown of earth. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It is over. <br>It is over so long that I begin to think <br>That it did not exist, that I have never— <br>And my son says, one morning, from the paper: <br>“An eland. Look, an eland!” <br>—It was so. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Today, in a German dictionary, I saw elend <br>And the heart in my breast turned over, it was— </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It was a word one translates wretched. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>It is as if someone remembered saying: <br>“This is an antimacassar that I grew from seed,” <br>And this were true. <br>And, truly, <br>One could not wish for anything more strange— <br>For anything more. And yet it wasn’t interesting ... <br>—It was worse than impossible, it was a joke. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And yet when it was, I was— <br>Even to think that I once thought <br>That I could see it to feel the sweat <br>Like needles at my hair-roots, I am blind </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>—It was not even a joke, not even a joke. <br>Yet how can I believe it? Or believe that I <br>Owned it, a husband, children? Is my voice the voice <br>Of that skin of being—of what owns, is owned <br>In honor or dishonor, that is borne and bears— <br>Or of that raw thing, the being inside it <br>That has neither a wife, a husband, nor a child <br>But goes at last as naked from this world <br>As it was born into it— </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And the eland comes and grazes on its grave. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>This is senseless? <br>Shall I make sense or shall I tell the truth? <br>Choose either—I cannot do both. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I tell myself that. And yet it is not so, <br>And what I say afterwards will not be so: <br>To be at all is to be wrong. <br>Being is being old <br>And saying, almost comfortably, across a table <br>From— <br>from what I don’t know— <br>in a voice <br>Rich with a kind of longing satisfaction: <br>“To own an eland! That’s what I call life!”</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Randall+Jarrell">Randall Jarrell</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=481205" data-title="Seele Im Raum de Randall Jarrell" data-description="It sat between my husband and my children. 
A place was set for it—a plate of greens. 
It had been there: I had seen it 
But not somehow—but this was like a dream— 
Not seen it so that I knew I saw it. 
It was as if I could not know I saw it..."></div>
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