Not that I want to be a god or a hero.
Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.
—Miłosz, Notes
Have I lied, have I stolen, have I cheated, have I sexed?
Have I killed or been killed?
Have I denied You? How many times?
Have I tossed away love, or summoned it wrongly?
Have I been ghost to paupers,
Unfathomable to pain, absent from doorways?
Grasped at what is not mine, abandoned what is?
Loved money too much, despised it too much?
Have I been dreary among railways, cross with the stars?
Have I been cruel to animals or people?
Have I recoiled from the butcheries appointed me?
Have I mixed the wrong blue, have I dismissed the dawn,
Have I betrayed the revelations of Nature,
Shuddered at her touch, her many dappled foreknowledges of death?
Lord, forgive your servant, lost in forests, marooned on beaches.
Attuned to every slight and deaf to the music of the spheres.
Wasteful of gifts and indecorous among angels.
Clinging to the dead past yet forgetful.
And so humble. Wanting only the right word, some quiet,
A bit of water, a bit of shade.
Only that, and eternal glory, adoration of women,
Adulation of crowds, riches beyond measure, home.
Others wished to be trees, kings, magnates, matriarchs, saints.
But me, a whale, wanderer and ruler of all deeps,
Blind librarian of all dark and secret knowledge,
Cantor across aeons, collecting and breaking hearts with song.
Instead I am a man, like You. How is it possible?
That You would say my name and I would appear.
And afterward no clouds parting. Another afternoon to endure.
I walk a little in the rain, say my little prayers,
Plant potatoes, scrub the bath, practice growing old.
a powerful prayer
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