Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices

Hear the fiery vision of Rainer Maria Rilke, mystic poet of the soul, who declared: “Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.” In these words, he does not merely describe a springtime meadow, but unveils the wild and urgent vitality of life itself. For in every blossom, every burst of color, there is a cry of existence—loud, insistent, unrestrained. The flowers bloom as though they have but one chance to shout their glory before darkness falls, and in this cry Rilke hears the eternal struggle of all living things to declare, I am here.

The meaning is profound: Nature in her blossoming does not bloom politely, with quiet order, but with reckless abandon. There is extravagance in the cherry tree, audacity in the rose, defiance in the field of poppies. Life itself, when given the chance, does not whisper—it roars. If we could hear with the ears of the spirit, the riot of colors would be heard as a cacophony of voices, each shouting its presence into the vast silence of eternity. Rilke reveals that the world is not still, but alive with a hidden cry of becoming.

Consider the tale of Van Gogh, who in his paintings sought to give voice to colors. His sunflowers do not merely sit in stillness—they burn, they tremble, they shout upon the canvas. In his swirls of sky and his violent strokes of yellow and blue, one sees what Rilke describes: the reckless blooming, the world itself shrieking its beauty into the night. Though Van Gogh suffered in silence, his paintings became the loud voices of nature’s frenzy, preserved forever for human eyes.

History also recalls the eruption of Mount Vesuvius over Pompeii. Though terrible in destruction, it too was a form of reckless blooming. The earth itself erupted with colors of fire, with voices of thunder. For even the silent mountains bear within them the same urgency to release, to cry out, to express. In Rilke’s vision, whether it is the bloom of flowers or the eruption of fire, life’s essential motion is toward expression—often wild, often overwhelming, but always unavoidable.

Yet these words carry also a mirror for the human soul. Within us too there is a reckless blooming—the passions of love, the storms of grief, the fire of desire, the hunger for meaning. If these inner forces were colors, our lives would blaze like meadows in spring; if they were voices, they would indeed shriek into the night. Rilke invites us not to fear this intensity but to recognize it as the essence of being alive. To bloom recklessly is not weakness—it is the natural cry of existence declaring itself against the silence of death.

O children of tomorrow, take this lesson into your hearts: do not restrain the bloom of your soul out of fear or shame. Just as the flower has only one season to blossom, so too your life is brief. Bloom recklessly, sing your song, paint your colors upon the canvas of the world. For it is better to bloom wildly and be heard, than to wither quietly, never having revealed your beauty.

Therefore, let your practice be this: embrace the fullness of your inner bloom. Write, sing, love, create, weep, and rejoice with abandon. See in the riot of springtime a reflection of your own vitality, and know that silence is not your destiny. If the world itself shrieks with colors, why should you remain voiceless? Bloom with courage, and let your colors speak.

Thus the words of Rilke endure: “Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.” Let them remind you that existence itself is a song too vast to be contained, a beauty too fierce to be subdued. To live fully is to join this chorus—to let your life bloom, even if recklessly, into the great symphony of the universe.