What will you do, God, when I die?

What will you do, God, when I die?

When I, your pitcher, broken, lie?

When I, your drink, go stale or dry?

I am your garb, the trade you ply,

you lose your meaning, losing me.


Homeless without me, you will be

robbed of your welcome, warm and sweet.

I am your sandals: your tired feet

will wander bare for want of me.


You mighty cloak will fall away.

Your glance that on my cheek was laid

and pillowed warm, will seek, dismayed,

the comfort that I offered once-

to lie, as sunset colors fade

in the cold lap of alien stones.


What will you do, God? I am afraid.


Rainer Maria Rilke, The book of hours (transl. by Babette Deutsch)