Czeslaw Milosz (30 June 1911 – 14 August 2004 / Kedainiai)
How It Was
Stalking a deer I wandered deep into the mountains and from there I saw.
Or perhaps it was for some other reason that I rose above the setting sun.
Above the hills of blackwood and a slab of ocean and the steps of a glacier, carmine-colored in the dusk.
I saw absence; the mighty power of counter-fulfillment; the penalty of a promise lost forever.
If, in tepees of plywood, tire shreds, and grimy sheet iron, ancient inhabitants of this land shook their rattles, it was all in vain.
No eagle-creator circled in the air from which the thunderbolt of its glory had been cast out.
Protective spirits hid themselves in subterranean beds of bubbling ore, jolting the surface from time to time so that the fabric of freeways was bursting asunder.
God the Father didn’t walk about any longer tending the new shoots of a cedar, no longer did man hear his rushing spirit.
His son did not know his sonship and turned his eyes away when passing by a neon cross flat as a movie screen showing a striptease.
This time it was really the end of the Old and the New Testament.
No one implored, everyone picked up a nodule of agate or diorite to whisper in loneliness: I cannot live any longer.
Bearded messengers in bead necklaces founded clandestine communes in imperial cities and in ports overseas.
But none of them announced the birth of a child-savior.
Soldiers from expeditions sent to punish nations would go disguised and masked to take part in forbidden rites, not looking for any hope.
They inhaled smoke soothing all memory and, rocking from side to side, shared with each other a word of nameless union.
Carved in black wood the Wheel of Eternal Return stood before the tents of wandering monastic orders.
And those who longed for the Kingdom took refuge like me in the mountains to become the last heirs of a dishonored myth.
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