silence
The Rest
The rest of us watch from beyond the fence
as the woman moves with her jagged stride
into her pain as if into a slow race.
We see her body in motion
but hear no sounds, or we hear
sounds but no language; or we know
it is not a language we know
yet. We can see her clearly
but for her it is running in black smoke.
The cluster of cells in her swelling
like porridge boiling, and bursting,
like grapes, we think. Or we think of
explosions in mud; but we know nothing.
All around us the trees
and the grasses light up with forgiveness,
so green and at this time
of the year healthy.
We would like to call something
out to her. Some form of cheering.
There is pain but no arrival at anything.
– Margaret Atwood
Oh, How Silent Is The Nature
Oh, how silent is the nature,
It only looks and only hears,
The people’s spirit in a rapture
Clings to a freedom — fast and fierce.
This planet will forget offences
Of him who trades, of him who kills,
And, as in reminiscences,
Druids will teach from greenish hills.
And, as in olden times, the poets
Will lead men’s souls up to heights,
Like Angel leads the dazzling comets
To a point, that is not in sight.
– Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev
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