Czeslaw Milosz - ArtificerCzeslaw Milosz - Artificer
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Burning, he walks in the stream of flickering letters, clarinets,
machines throbbing quicker than the heart, lopped-off heads, silk
canvases, and he stops under the sky
and raises toward it his joined clenched fists.
Believers fall on their bellies, they suppose it is a monstrance that shines,
but those are knuckles, sharp knuckles shine that way, my friends.
He cuts the glowing, yellow buildings in two, breaks the walls into motley halves;
pensive, he looks at the honey seeping from those huge honeycombs:
throbs of pianos, children`s cries, the thud of a head banging against the floor.
This is the only landscape able to make him feel.
He wonders at his brother`s skill shaped like an egg,
every day he shoves back his black hair from his brow,
then one day he plants a big load of dynamite
and is surprised that afterward everything sprouts up in the explosion.
Agape, he observes the clouds and what is hanging in them:
globes, penal codes, dead cats floating on their backs, locomotives.
They turn in the skeins of white clouds like trash in a puddle.
While below on the earth a banner, the color of a romantic rose, flutters,
and a long row of military trains crawls on the weed-covered tracks.
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