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Poetry

This chasm. Quite simply, the abyss.
Gale in a sultry church.

Out of the dark the voices of seraphim.
A beauty impossible to bear.

A theology of opposites:
in Christmas hymns
this sorrow like a lidless coffin.

Humble, the unknown soloist
folds his hands and bows his head
in gratitude for the applause.

Suddenly we’re ashamed to clap.

A small Romanian boy,
colorful banner in hand,
processes round a pew.

The mourning cloth
has not yet stirred.

God’s nothingness
rustles.

 

Translated from the Polish by Karen Kovacik


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