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There's one other early
poem I want to read.

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Relatively, because
it's the centenary

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of the death of a great German
poet called Rainer Maria Rilke.

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And this is a rough
translation of a poem by Rilke

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about some ancestor of
his called, I think,

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coordinate Cornelius
Rilke, or something

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like this, who was a soldier.

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I suppose during the Thirty
Years' War, and anyhow.

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This is and the
series of short poems

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by Rilke written when he
was very young man himself.

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It consist of
letters sent home, I

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suppose to his
girlfriend or something,

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from the battlefield.

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And I think this is, I forget
the original Rilke poem,

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but I think this is a rough
trans--, a very free version

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or suggested by
Rainer Maria Rilke.

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Rolled over on Europe, the sharp
dew frozen to stars below us.

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Above our heads, the night
frozen again to stars.

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The stars in pools between our
coats and that charmed moon.

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What supports, what
cross draws out

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our arms heaves up our
bodies towards the wind,

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and hammers us between
the mirrored light?

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Only my body is
real, which wolves

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are free to oppress and gnaw.

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Only this rose my friend
laid on my breast,

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and these few lines
written from home are real.

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