Come, You: the Death Poem of Rainer Maria Rilke

Come, You by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch Come, you--the last one I acknowledge; return-- incurable pain searing this physical mesh. As I burned in the spirit once, so now I burn with you; meanwhile, you consume my flesh. This wood that long resisted your embrace now nourishes you; I surrender to your fury as my gentleness mutates to hellish rage-- uncaged, wild, primal, mindless, outré. Completely free, no longer future's pawn, I clambered up this crazy pyre of pain, certain I'd never return--my heart's reserves gone-- to become death's nameless victim, purged by flame. Now all I ever was must be denied. I left my memories of my past elsewhere. That life--my former life--remains outside. Inside, I'm lost. Nobody knows me here. “Komm, Du” (“Come, You”) was Rilke's last poem, written ten days before his death. He died in doctor's arms on December 29, 1926, in the Valmont Sanatorium, of leukemia. I had a friend who died of leukemia and he was burning up with fever in the end. I believe that is what Rilke was describing here: he was literally burning alive. Keywords/Tags: Rilke, German, Translation, Life, Death, Death Bed, Last Words, Surreal, Leukemia, Cancer, Hospital, Depression, Health, Pain, Pyre, Fire Du im Voraus (“You who never arrived”) by Rainer Maria Rilke loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch You who never arrived in my arms, my Belovéd, lost before we began... How can I possibly know which songs might please you? I have given up trying to envision you in portentous moments before the next wave impacts... when all the vastness and immenseness within me, all the far-off undiscovered lands and landscapes, all the cities, towers and bridges, all the unanticipated twists and turns in the road, and all those terrible terrains once traversed by strange gods— engender new meaning in me: your meaning, my enigmatic darling... You, who continually elude me. You, my Belovéd, who are every garden I ever gazed upon, longingly, through some country manor’s open window, so that you almost stepped out, pensively, to meet me; who are every sidestreet I ever chanced upon, even though you’d just traipsed tantalizingly away, and vanished, while the disconcerted shopkeepers’ mirrors still dizzily reflected your image, flashing you back at me, startled by my unwarranted image! Who knows, but perhaps the same songbird’s cry echoed through us both, yesterday, separate as we were, that evening?