"At times, a man rises up ..." - Rilke

This poem of Rilke's below has always haunted the alleys of my mind, peeking in and asking questions: 

After years of years, I continue to wonder which man I am - the one who wanders off into the east, or the one who stays buried inside his home.  I think the nearest thing to truth - so far, anyway - is that I am, or have been, both men.  I went out in search of the sacred place, but perhaps I didn't go far enough, and my children have further to travel because of it. 

          At times, a man will rise up from his dinner table
          and step outside, and walk and walk and walk
          because of a church standing somewhere in the east.

          And his children say blessings over him as though he had died.

          And another, who will die inside his home,
          stays always within, stays with his table and his glasses
          so that his children are drawn out into the world,
          pulled toward that same church, which he forgot.

(my own translation)