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.