Window, a measure of waiting,
filled up so many times,
when a life pours out and grows
impatient for another life.
You pull apart and pull towards,
changeable as the sea,
a glass where, suddenly, our faces mirror
themselves and mix with what we see there.
A scrap of freedom compromised
by chance's presence;
taken up by something that's inside us that levels
with the superfluity of what's outside.
(Rilke, Windows IV. My translation again. I'll get around to appending the originals at some point.
Photos taken from London Bridge. Not sure what the building is.)