 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
I can tell by the way the trees beat, after
so many dull days, on my worried windowpanes
that a storm is coming,
and I can hear far-off fields say things
I can't bear without a friend,
I can't love without a sister.
The storm, the shifter or of shapes, drives on
across the woods and across time
and the world looks as if it had no age:
the landscape, like a line in the psalm book,
his seriousness and weight and eternity.
What we choose to fight is so tiny!
What fights with us is so great!
If only we would let ourselves be dominated
as things to by some immense storm
we would become strong to, and not need names.
When we win it's with small things
and the triumph itself makes a small.
What is extraordinary and eternal
does not want to be bent by us.
I mean the Angel who appeared
to the wrestlers of the Old Testament:
when the wrestler' s sinews
grew long like metal strings, he felt them under his fingers
like chords of deep music.
Whoever was beaten by this Angel
(who often simply declined the fight)
went away proud and strengthened
and great from that harsh hand,
that kneaded him as if to change his shape.
Winning does not tempt that man.
This is how he grows: by being defeated, decisively,
by constantly greater beings.
translated by Robert Bly
(In: The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart: Poems for Men)
