Today, like every day, we wake up empty, scared.
Don’t open the door to the study and begin reading.
Take down a musical instrument and start to play.
Let the beauty you love be what you do.
There are a hundred ways to kneel and kiss the ground.
Go find the height again, and the dark,
where longing, pain, and joy live
and faith in the good God, who does
and undoes, kindles
and extinguishes light and desire,
and who writes with his quill of years
long reminiscences on the loveliest faces;
owls flit softly through the vines
and the trees open, just this much, to utter
your presence in the bright gloom,
a sheet of torn paper, healing, healing
again, no trace, no scar. I hear
languages, voices, sighs,
the hopeful laments of those who loved
and those who preferred hatred, those who betrayed
and those betrayed, all of them
voyage in the labyrinth, above them
the fire soaring, the pure fire
of salutation and presence.
I feel you, I listen
to your silence.
from The Gothic (A. Zagajewski)