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.
Translated from the Polish by Karen Kovacik
The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.