Paternal Pique

(Translation from Rilke’s Book of Images, 1902)

‘Does one love one’s father? Does one not?
Like you who abandoned me, hardness in your face.
Should I turn my back on your helpless, empty hands,
and put your withered words in a closed book …
with your dated manners and passé attire,
your wrinkled hands and thinning hair?
You, who once-upon-a-time was a child’s hero,
are merely a dead leaf about to fall …
Isn’t to call you father a cause for regret.
that cuts you off for ever. Let you be my son
and I would know you like a cherished child,
even when you grow up and grow old.’