Behold O brethren, quick he was but quick
he died and left us. This was a poor trick.
We knew him well, nor great nor excellent,
his heart like ours, with our hearts competent.
No more of him
but ashes to ashes.
The roof falls and crushes
the rich store of him.
Profit all of you by his example.
This is what man is like, a singular sample.
No copy existed before, nor does one at present.
As on a living branch each leaf is different
so time itself will breed no simulacrum.
Examine his head; the stark ruin
of his dear eyes. Look, here is his fist
enveloped in impenetrable mist,
stony, metallic
as a relic,
and his palm marked out in cuneiform which speaks
of private modes of life, which were his and were unique.
Whoever he was, whatever heat or dim
light he was known by, recognized by–was him.
Whatever he favoured: one or other meal,
or uttered through lips which now retain the seal
of silence; however his voice made a low commotion
in our ears, like bells under the ocean,
old parish bells; however he murmured, “Please
pass me the plate, I’m hungry for some cheese,”
or drank his wine, or gazed contented at
the cheap smoke rising from his cigarette,
or ran his errands, used the telephone,
wove dreams out of his threaded polychrome
existence: the sign upon his brow would tell you in
a twinkling – Behold him, ecce homo, the One-in-a-Million.
Seek him in neglected or forgotten spots,
among the Esquimaux or Hottentots,
in vain; the past is vain and the vast future
where anyone might be born save him, poor creature.
Ah, never more
will his face light up with that faint smile. Too poor
outrageous fortune, to take a second run
at the miracle which was him alone.
Dearly beloved, is he not like the man
in the fairy tale, which like all tales began
with “Once upon a time there dwelt…”?
Life turned its thought to him, and we but felt
the story starting when, Lords, he was struck down,
the heavens fell upon him and “dwelt” had lost its noun,
the subject of our tears and tales. Extent
he lies who strove for high intent,
his own benumbed, unspeaking monument.
No tears can wake him now, no words, nor herbs or fungus,
who once upon a time dwelt here among us.
translator: George Szirtes
he died and left us. This was a poor trick.
We knew him well, nor great nor excellent,
his heart like ours, with our hearts competent.
No more of him
but ashes to ashes.
The roof falls and crushes
the rich store of him.
Profit all of you by his example.
This is what man is like, a singular sample.
No copy existed before, nor does one at present.
As on a living branch each leaf is different
so time itself will breed no simulacrum.
Examine his head; the stark ruin
of his dear eyes. Look, here is his fist
enveloped in impenetrable mist,
stony, metallic
as a relic,
and his palm marked out in cuneiform which speaks
of private modes of life, which were his and were unique.
Whoever he was, whatever heat or dim
light he was known by, recognized by–was him.
Whatever he favoured: one or other meal,
or uttered through lips which now retain the seal
of silence; however his voice made a low commotion
in our ears, like bells under the ocean,
old parish bells; however he murmured, “Please
pass me the plate, I’m hungry for some cheese,”
or drank his wine, or gazed contented at
the cheap smoke rising from his cigarette,
or ran his errands, used the telephone,
wove dreams out of his threaded polychrome
existence: the sign upon his brow would tell you in
a twinkling – Behold him, ecce homo, the One-in-a-Million.
Seek him in neglected or forgotten spots,
among the Esquimaux or Hottentots,
in vain; the past is vain and the vast future
where anyone might be born save him, poor creature.
Ah, never more
will his face light up with that faint smile. Too poor
outrageous fortune, to take a second run
at the miracle which was him alone.
Dearly beloved, is he not like the man
in the fairy tale, which like all tales began
with “Once upon a time there dwelt…”?
Life turned its thought to him, and we but felt
the story starting when, Lords, he was struck down,
the heavens fell upon him and “dwelt” had lost its noun,
the subject of our tears and tales. Extent
he lies who strove for high intent,
his own benumbed, unspeaking monument.
No tears can wake him now, no words, nor herbs or fungus,
who once upon a time dwelt here among us.
translator: George Szirtes