A Poem For the End of the Century
When everything was
And the notion of sin had
And the earth was
In universal
To consume and
Without creeds and utopias,
I, for unknown reasons,
Surrounded by the
Of prophets and theologians,
Of philosophers, poets,
Searched for an answer,
Scowling, grimacing,
Waking up at night, muttering at dawn.
What oppressed me so
Was a bit shameful.
Talking of it
Would show neither tact nor prudence.
It might even seem an
Against the health of mankind.
Alas, my
Does not want to leave
And in it, live
Each with its own pain,
Each with its own dying,
Its own trepidation.
Why then
On paradisal beaches,
An impeccable
Over the church of hygiene?
Is it because
Was long ago?
To a saintly man—So goes an Arab tale—God said somewhat maliciously:"Had I revealed to
How great a sinner you are,
They could not praise you.""And I," answered the pious one,"Had I unveiled to
How merciful you are,
They would not care for you."To whom should I
With that affair so
Of pain and also
In the structure of the world,
If either here
Or over there on
No power can
The cause and the effect?
Don't think, don't
The death on the cross,
Though everyday He dies,
The only one, all-loving,
Who without any
Consented and
To exist all that is,
Including nails of torture.
Totally enigmatic.
Impossibly intricate.
Better to stop speech here.
This language is not for people.
Blessed be jubilation.
Vintages and harvests.
Even if not
Is granted serenity.
Czeslaw Milosz
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