Chapter 10 10

This is one of those nights when the clouds Like a transoceanic steamship, A friendly battle with the sun, and the light, That strong, pitiless light of June, Enduring endless changes and filtering. Because the city is huge, thousands of people by train or car after a day of useless toil back to the suburbs stuffed with fresh hay Toy soldiers in a cardboard box. And the old world is covered with bare feet, The Greeks have boxers' broken noses, Gloomy, silent, hungry. Higher than the chimneys, higher than the shiny tin roofs Antenna, Rainstorm Buildup But it didn't fall in the end.

Beyond the rainstorm is the shining night The gods, the world, crawl. There is nothing beyond the gods, Only the industrious thrush sang the song of ecstasy. I stood silently in the street, for desire Nailed, half pain, half sweet, Inappropriately, praying, for yourself and others, died for me, mother, and for my death, An untamed beast. There is always a night as soft as a horse's hair And we'd rather play chess or cards here, When the one-eyed TV changes images indifferently Some of the guests sang. The tree of my childhood crossed the ocean Greet me coldly from the screen.

The Polish Peasant in a Theological Controversy Giving up the zeal of the Jesuits: only the Jew is silent, Tired of their long deaths. The river my youth sails carefully Flowing to distant lands, strange continents. The hay cart hauls not hay but fur, The axle creaked under the weight of the seemingly light weight. we're innocent, the pines claim The SS officer is emaciated and old, Doctors are trying to save their hearts, lives, and consciousness. It was late and drowsiness took hold of me. I'm going to sleep but my neighbors Singing still louder in unison: Louder than the dying Jews.

Heavy trucks carry the stars from the sky, gloomy train passing in the rain I am innocent, regretted Mozart; Only aspen, trembling as usual, Ready to admit their guilt. Czech Jews sing their national anthem: "Where is our home..." There is no home, the house is burning, the cold gas is howling inside I felt increasingly innocent and lethargic. TV reassures me: it and I beyond doubt Birthdays are even more noisy. Auschwitz shoes, pyramid-like As high as the sky, moaning feebly: God, we've outlived humans, now let's sleep, let's sleep We have nowhere to go. We can only be in another kind of Miri

find comfort in others Music, in other people's poems. Redemption is with others, though loneliness tastes like opium.Others are not hell, If you glanced at them at dawn, when Their faces, clean and clean, are washed for dreams. So I feel hesitant to say "you" Still say "he".among others have a real conversation with you while Will appear in other people's poems. Through the city, in a gray hour When sorrow hides under shady doors children playing in garden Above the poison well, floating like a kite giant sphere When quiet, hesitating, the last thrush sings.

Think about your life, it's still going on Although it has been going on for so long. Can you express everything in case. Can you tell what meanness you see? have you ever met someone who is really living do you know? Have you ever abused lofty words? Who you were supposed to be, who knows. You love stillness, and what you hold Just silence, listening to words, music, and silence. Why you started telling, who knows. Why in this day and age, why in this country, — as if it hadn't been born yet, who knows. Why among the exiles, in a room formerly owned by a certain German

apartment, in grief, mourning Between the vain hope of regaining a myth, Why do you only have one in the shadow of the mine crane Childhood, not in the shade of the woods, When the brook flows, a dragonfly keeps watch The secret of the oneness of the universe --who knows. And, your love, the love you lost and found, and your god he never helps those who seek him, but hide from those with degrees among theologians. Why in a somber hour, in this city, This dry tongue, this numb lip, Why so many questions before you leave before returning to that kingdom -- there, silence, ecstasy, and wind

has come again. I asked my father, "What do you do all day?" "I recall." It was a dusty little apartment in Grivice, Soviet-style, low-slung blocks They say all cities should look like barracks, A narrow room facilitates the defeat of intrigue, An old-fashioned wall clock on the wall walks tirelessly. Thirty-nine years he lived through the genial September, its whistling bombs, The garden of the monks in Lviv, shining The leaves of the maple and the locust, and the birds, Small canoes on the Transnistria, the scent of willow branches and the wet sand, A woman studying law you met one hot day,

Journey to the west by wagon, the last frontier, 68 students thank you for your help sent two hundred roses, Other little episodes I never knew, A girl's kiss that didn't become my mother, Childhood fears and sweet gooseberries, before I was born All images in the calm chaos. Your memory lives in that quiet apartment—in silence, Methodical, you commit to instant recovery Your century of pain.