What are you doing here, poet, on the ruins br Of St. John's Cathedral this sunny br Day in spring? br br What are you thinking here, where the wind br Blowing from the Vistula scatters br The red dust of the rubble? br br You swore never to be br A ritual mourner. br You swore never to touch br The deep wounds of your nation br So you would not make them holy br With the accursed holiness that pursues br Descendants for many centuries. br br But the lament of Antigone br Searching for her brother br Is indeed beyond the power br Of endurance. And the heart br Is a stone in which is enclosed, br Like an insect, the dark love br Of a most unhappy land. br I did not want to love so. br That was not my design. br I did not want to pity so. br That was not my design. br My pen is lighter br Than a hummingbird's feather. This burden br Is too much for it to bear. br How can I live in this country br Where the foot knocks against br The unburied bones of kin? br br I hear voices, see smiles. I cannot br Write anything; five hands br Seize my pen and order me to write br The story of their lives and deaths. br Was I born to become br a ritual mourner? br I want to sing of festivities, br The greenwood into which Shakespeare br Often took me. Leave br To poets a moment of happiness, br Otherwise your world will perish. br br It's madness to live without joy br And to repeat to the dead br Whose part was to be gladness br Of action in thought and in the flesh, singing, feasts br Only the two salvaged words: br Truth and justice.