A Poem for the End of The Century 

When everything was fine 
And the notion of sin had vanished 
And the earth was ready 
In universal peace 
To consume and rejoice 
Without creeds and utopias, 

I, for unknown reasons, 
Surrounded by the books 
Of prophets and theologians, 
Of philosophers, poets, 
Searched for an answer, 
Scowling, grimacing, 
Waking up at night, muttering at dawn. 

What oppressed me so much 
Was a bit shameful. 
Talking of it aloud 
Would show neither tact nor prudence. 
It might even seem an outrage 
Against the health of mankind. 

Alas, my memory 
Does not want to leave me 
And in it, live beings 
Each with its own pain, 
Each with its own dying, 
Its own trepidation. 

Why then innocence 
On paradisal beaches, 
An impeccable sky 
Over the church of hygiene? 
Is it because that 
Was long ago? 

To a saintly man 
--So goes an Arab tale-- 
God said somewhat maliciously: 
"Had I revealed to the people 
How great a sinner you are, 
They could not praise you." 

"And I," answered the pious one, 
"Had I unveiled to them 
How merciful you are, 
They would not care for you." 

To who should I turn 
With that affair so dark 
Of pain and also guilt 
In the structure of the world, 
If either here below 
Or over there on high 
No power can abolish 
The cause and effect? 

Don't think, don't remember 
The death on the cross, 
Though everyday He dies, 
The only one, all-loving, 
Who without any need 
Consented and allowed 
To exist all that is, 
Including nails of torture. 

Totally enigmatic. 
Impossibly intricate. 
Better to stop speech here. 
This language is not for people. 
Blessed be jubilation. 
Vintages and harvests. 
Even if not everyone 
Is granted serenity. 

  -- Czeslaw Milosz