The Panther

His gaze has been so worn by the procession
Of bars that it no longer makes a bond.
Around, a thousand bars seem to be flashing,
And in their flashing show no world beyond.

As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
The movement of his powerful soft strides
Are like a dance of strength about a center
In which a mighty will stands paralyzed.

Only from time to time the pupil's shutter
Will draw apart: an image enters then,
Rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
Plunges into the heart and is gone.

-Rainer Maria Rilke-