I watch the black bats fly
in and out of the cloisters
on my way to the church
for Compline,
perché la rabbia
dei pagani? ,
smell of incense after Mass
and the tall monk
holding the host
with a shaking hand
attempting to place
on the tongue
of a fellow monk,
et les gens imaginent
une chose vaine?
I sit in the church
taking in the high windows
and sunlight peering through
on to the flagstones,
por qué los paganos
se enfurecen?
closing my eyes
I hear the bells tolling
for the office of None
wondering who tolled
who was pulling
the bell ropes,
et populi meditati
sunt inania? ,
Dom Joe finding me
in the common room
reading Merton
said puoi venire e provare
la tua vocazione
which I did
the following year,
the French peasant monk
wheeling a wheelbarrow
with tonsured head bowed
and features set
in a heavenly tone,
in caelesti sono,
the heathen rage
and others imagine
some vain thing,
I sigh deeply
listening
to the monks sing.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem