The leaves are falling, falling as from far
withered gardens in the distant sky,
they fall with resigned gestures.
And in the night falls the heavy Earth
out of all the stars in the solitude.
We are all falling. This hand falls
And look at everything, it is in all.
And yet there is one who all of these falling
eternally, soft, holds in his hands.
Rainer Maria Rilke: Buch der Bilder trans. By C. A.