Milosz lies on his death bed,
but, on the other side,
awake in a grey room
where there’s no night or day—
a Swedenborgian
self-sentenced heaven-hell.
I stand nearby the window.
He says: “I’ve always known
I am the greatest poet.”
I answer: “I feel the same
about my humble self.
And what about God? ”
With stern hawkish eyes,
he looks at me and says:
“Electricity! ”
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem