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The Selkie's Song|Enchanted Fairytale Dreams



How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses? Perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave. Perhaps everything terrible is, in its deepest being, something helpless that wants help from us.

So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises up before you larger than any you have ever seen; if a restiveness, like light and cloud-shadows, passes over your hands and over all you do. You must think that something is happening with you, that life has not forgotten you, that it holds you in its hand; it will not let you fall.
 Letters To A Young Poet (excerpt), by Rainer Maria Rilke.

(Source: faeryhearts)

You darkness that I come from,I love you more than all the firesthat fence in the world,for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone,and then no one outside learns of you.
But the darkness pulls in everything:shapes and fires, animals and myself, –how easily it gathers them! –powers and people –and it is possible a great energyis moving near me.I have faith in nights.— You Darkness, by Rainer Maria Rilke.

You darkness that I come from,
I love you more than all the fires
that fence in the world,
for the fire makes a circle of light for everyone,
and then no one outside learns of you.


But the darkness pulls in everything:
shapes and fires, animals and myself, –
how easily it gathers them! –
powers and people –

and it is possible a great energy
is moving near me.

I have faith in nights.
— You Darkness, by Rainer Maria Rilke.
How should we be able to forget those ancient mythsthat are at the beginning of all peoples,the myths about dragons that, at the last moment,turn into princesses?Perhaps, all the dragons of our lives are princesseswho are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.
Perhaps, everything terrible is in its deepest beingsomething helpless that wants help from us.So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises upbefore you larger than any you have ever seen;if a restiveness, like light and cloud-shadows,passes over your hands and over all you do.You must think that something is happening with you,that life has not forgotten you,that it holds you in its hand;it will not let you fall…— Letters To A Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke.[Artwork by Ciruelo Cabral.]

How should we be able to forget those ancient myths
that are at the beginning of all peoples,
the myths about dragons that, at the last moment,
turn into princesses?
Perhaps, all the dragons of our lives are princesses
who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.

Perhaps, everything terrible is in its deepest being
something helpless that wants help from us.

So you must not be frightened if a sadness rises up
before you larger than any you have ever seen;
if a restiveness, like light and cloud-shadows,
passes over your hands and over all you do.
You must think that something is happening with you,
that life has not forgotten you,
that it holds you in its hand;
it will not let you fall…
— Letters To A Young Poet, by Rainer Maria Rilke.




[Artwork by Ciruelo Cabral.]
This is the creature there has never been.They never knew it, and yet, nonetheless,they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.Not there because they loved it; it behaved
as though it were. They always left some space.And in that clear, unpeopled space they savedit lightly reared its head, with scarce a traceof not being there. They fed it, not with corn,but only with the possibilityof being. And that was able to confersuch strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn.Whitely it stole up to a maid – to bewithin the silver mirror and in her.— This Is The Creature, by Rainer Maria Rilke.

This is the creature there has never been.
They never knew it, and yet, nonetheless,
they loved the way it moved, its suppleness,
its neck, its very gaze, mild and serene.

Not there because they loved it; it behaved

as though it were. They always left some space.
And in that clear, unpeopled space they saved
it lightly reared its head, with scarce a trace

of not being there. They fed it, not with corn,
but only with the possibility
of being. And that was able to confer
such strength, its brow put forth a horn. One horn.

Whitely it stole up to a maid – to be
within the silver mirror and in her.
— This Is The Creature, by Rainer Maria Rilke.
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