Sometimes it would behoove a man
to have a day free from life.
So I am lying, Augustine, spread – horizontal,
The smell of the meadow is pulsating in the nostrils like a song.
Here I was born – It’s organic closeness
To the grass, the growth, the decay, the chain of change.
The sky is watching me idly - it is a pretense.
Think: behind that cloud the energy of the cosmos
Is moving a great millwheel; to waste,
To death. Look how all of a sudden are emerging
And devouring us enormous jaws of air
And from the recesses of the brain a fright is flooding in
With the sword of rebellion set in the hand.
How can I rest here, Saint Augustine?
tłumaczenie: Iwona Cymerman