on reading "death", by rainer maria rilke.

i extract the line,

What kind of beings are they then,
who finally must be scared away by poison?

and i think, 

What kind of beings are they then,
Who are not scared away by poison? 
Who buy it off the shelves,
Who put it in their food? 
Who drink the poison cup every day?

and it's not so cool to extract a line from a poem and just leave it there used for another purpose, or extract it for your own poem! what folly, when it's purpose is the poem, and you should read it for yourself, and then on some level i wish we could talk about it, but that's the haunting thing, you can't talk about a poem without talking for a poem and for a poet, and especially no one can talk for a poem by rilke. so,

Death 
by Rainer Maria Rilke

There stands death, a bluish distillate
in a cup without a saucer. Such a strange
place to find a cup: standing on
the back of a hand. One recognizes clearly
the line along the glazed curve, where the handle
snapped. Covered with dust. And Hope is written
across the side, in a faded Gothic script.

The man who was to drink out of that cup
read it aloud at breakfast, long ago.

What kind of beings are they then,
who finally must be scared away by poison?

Otherwise would they stay here? Would they keep
chewing so foolishly on their own frustration?
The hard present moment must be pulled
out of them, like a set of false teeth.
Then they mumble. Then they go on mumbling. . .

O falling star,
once seen into from a bridge—:
Not to forget you. To endure.