V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID
After the torch-light red on sweaty faces |
After the frosty silence in the gardens
|
After the agony in stony places
|
The shouting and the crying
|
Prison and place and reverberation
|
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
|
He who was living is now dead
|
We who were living are now dying
|
With a little patience
|
|
Here is no water but only rock
|
Rock and no water and the sandy road
|
The road winding above among the mountains
|
Which are mountains of rock without water
|
If there were water we should stop and drink
|
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
|
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
|
If there were only water amongst the rock
|
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
|
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
|
There is not even silence in the mountains
|
But dry sterile thunder without rain
|
There is not even solitude in the mountains
|
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
|
From doors of mud-cracked houses
If there were water |
And no rock
|
If there were rock
|
And also water
|
And water
|
A spring
|
A pool among the rock
|
If there were the sound of water only
|
Not the cicada
|
And dry grass singing
|
But sound of water over a rock
|
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
|
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
|
But there is no water
|
|
Who is the third who walks always beside you?
|
When I count, there are only you and I together
|
But when I look ahead up the white road
|
There is always another one walking beside you
|
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
|
I do not know whether a man or a woman
|
—But who is that on the other side of you?
|
|
What is that sound high in the air
|
Murmur of maternal lamentation
|
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
|
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
|
Ringed by the flat horizon only
|
What is the city over the mountains
|
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
|
Falling towers
|
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
|
Vienna London
|
Unreal
|
|
A woman drew her long black hair out tight
|
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
|
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
|
Whistled, and beat their wings
|
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
|
And upside down in air were towers
|
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
|
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
|
|
In this decayed hole among the mountains
|
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
|
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
|
There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home.
|
It has no windows, and the door swings,
|
Dry bones can harm no one.
|
Only a cock stood on the roof-tree
|
Co co rico co co rico
|
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
|
Bringing rain
|
Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
|
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
|
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
|
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
|
Then spoke the thunder
|
DA
|
Datta: what have we given?
|
My friend, blood shaking my heart
|
The awful daring of a moment’s surrender
|
Which an age of prudence can never retract
|
By this, and this only, we have existed
|
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
|
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
|
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
|
In our empty rooms
|
DA
|
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
|
Turn in the door once and turn once only
|
We think of the key, each in his prison
|
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
|
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
|
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
|
DA
|
Damyata: The boat responded
|
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
|
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
|
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
|
To controlling hands
|
|
I
sat upon the shore
|
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
|
Shall I at least set my lands in order?
|
|
London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down
|
|
Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina
|
Quando fiam ceu chelidon—O swallow swallow
|
Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie
|
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
|
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe.
|
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
|
|
Shantih shantih shantih
|
Stranice namenjene odabranoj poeziji i vrhunskoj prozi.
4. 7. 2012.
THE WASTE LAND (V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID)
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