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Try To Praise The Mutilated World

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Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June's long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You've seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you've heard the executioners sing joyfully.
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Clare Cavanagh 01 April 2008
I am the translator of this poem, and not Renata Gorczynski, as the original publication in The New Yorker and later in Zagajewski's collection 'Without End, ' will confirm. I'd appreciate your chaning the attribution here. Thank you.
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