Today's poem is by Sandor Csoori, translated by Len Roberts
The Time Has Come
The time has come, my Lord, for me to sit out here before
you on the hilltop.
I can see the sky's already clouding over above your church.
And in the garden growing Octobery,
my dog, too, bites your fattest roses in two,
like cock-heads tossed on a dung heap.
Decay organizes itself, my Lord, against us,
it would be a mistake to deny it.
I, who wanted to survive your light in my eyes,
can see continents loaded with garbage gliding into each other
and indifferent empires spitting into the sea.
Smoke, smoke, poisoned dust and the gang
of poisoned words roam among our quiet hours.
What, my Lord, will become of your waterdrops? What will
become of your snowdew?
What will become of your psalmy bees fallen into a swoon?
Copyright © 2004 Sandor Csoori, translated by Len Roberts All rights reserved
from Before and After the Fall
BOA Editions, Ltd
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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