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