Rilke, from DasStundenbuch

In this town the last house stands
as lonely as if it were the last house in the world

The highway, which the tiny town is not able to stop,
slowly goes deeper out into the night.

The tiny town is only a passing-over place,
worried and afraid, between two huge spaces –
a path running past houses instead of a bridge.

And those who leave the town wander a long way off
and many perhaps die on the road.

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