When you look through 3,000 photographs of a lived life, you start coughing water,
you go outside and blow out a sky from your filled-up lungs,
a sky with 3,000 faraway burning holes,
and no long ladder to climb up and fix them.
Going to the moon is a cinch. A leap over a mere ditch,
but try sticking your flag in any lived moment.
It will burn, you’ll see.
You know: “If all time is eternally present all time is unredeemable.”
Non nobis, non nobis, Domine, sed nomini tuo da gloriam, that’s what they sang
on St. Crispin’s Day a hundred years ago, when the fighting was over,
and the weeping king carried a young boy’s body to the wagon.
And the last exhalations of the dead, shrouded by the clouds of the sky,
condensed into planets, just like this one, and they rain upon us,
even still they rain upon us.
But I’m not claiming that time exists, no no.
I just think the Lord started to fill his tub with elements,
but then forgot the plug.
Translated by Kasper Salonen