equal to itself 
mindful of its limits

filled exactly 
with a pebbly meaning

with a scent which does not remind one of anything 
does not frighten anything away does not arouse desire

its ardour and coldness 
are just and full of dignity

I feel a heavy remorse 
when I hold it in my hand 
and its noble body 
is permeated by false warmth

- Pebbles cannot be tamed 
to the end they will look at us 
with a calm and very clear eye

Study of the Object

1

The most beautiful 
is the object which does not exist

it does not serve to carry water 
or to preserve the ashes of a hero

it was not cradled by Antigone 
nor was a rat drowned in it

it has no hole and is entirely open
seen
from every side which means hardly anticipated

the hairs of all its lines join
in one stream of light

neither
blindness
nor
death
can take away the object which does not exist

2

mark the place where stood the object 
which does not exist 
with a black square it will be
a simple dirge for the beautiful absence

manly regret imprisoned in a quadrangle

3

now
all space swells like an ocean

a hurricane beats on the black sail

the wing of a blizzard 
circles over the black square

and the island sinks 
beneath the salty increase

4

now you have empty space
more beautiful than the object

more beautiful than the place 
it leaves it is the pre-world
a white paradise of all possibilities 
you may enter there 
cry out vertical-horizontal

perpendicular lightning 
strikes the naked horizon

we can stop at that
anyway you have already created a world

5

obey the counsels of the inner eye

do not yield
to murmurs mutterings smackings

it is the uncreated world 
crowding before the gates of your canvas

angels are offering 
the rosy wadding of clouds

trees are inserting everywhere 
slovenly green hair

kings are praising purple 
and commanding their trumpeters to gild

even the whale 
asks for a portrait

obey the counsels of the inner eye 
admit no one

6

extract
from the shadow of the object 
which does not exist
from polar space
from the stern reveries of the inner eye a chair
beautiful and useless like a cathedral in the wilderness

place on the chair a crumpled tablecloth 
add to the idea of order 
the idea of adventure

let it be a confession of faith
before the vertical struggling with the horizontal

let it be quieter than angels 
prouder than kings
more substantial 
than a whale 
let it have the face of the last things

we ask reveal o chair the depths of the inner eye 
the iris of necessity the pupil of death

Revelation

Two 
perhaps three
times
I was sure
I would touch the essence
and would know
the web of my formula 
made of allusions as in the Phaedo 
had also the rigour
of Heisenberg's equation

I was sitting immobile
with watery eyes
I felt my backbone
fill with quiet certitude

earth stood still 
heaven stood still 
my immobility was nearly perfect

the postman rang
I had to 
pour out the dirty water 
prepare tea

Siva lifted his finger 
the furniture of heaven and earth 
started to spin again

I returned to my room 
where is that perfect peace 
the idea of a glass was being spilled all over the table

I sat down immobile 
with watery eyes 
filled with emptiness i.e. with desire
If it happens to me once more
I shall be moved neither by the postman's bell 
nor by the shouting of angels

I shall sit immobile 
my eyes fixed 
upon the heart of things

a dead star

a black drop of infinity

The Fathers of a Star

Clocks were running as usual 
so they waited only for the avalanche effect 
and whether it would follow 
the curve traced on a sheet of ether
they were calm and certain on the tower 
of their calculations
amid gentle volcanoes 
under the guard of lead 
they were covered by glass and silence 
and a sky without
secrets
clocks were running as usual 
so the explosion came

with their hats pulled tightly over their brows 
they walked away
smaller than their clothes 
the fathers of a star 
they thought about a kite from childhood 
the tense
string trembled in their hands 
and now everything was separated from them 
clocks worked for them 
they were left only like an heirloom from father 
an old silver pulse

in the evening 
in a house 
near a forest 
without animals or ferns
with a concrete path and an electric owl 
they will read the tale of Daedalus to their children
the Greek was right 
he didn't want the moon or the stars 
he was only a bird 
he remained in the order of nature 
and the things he created 
followed him like animals 
like a cloak he wore on his shoulders 
his wings and his
fate

A Wooden Die

A wooden die can be described 
only from without. 
We are therefore condemned 
to eternal ignorance of its essence. 
Even if it is quickly cut in two, immediately its
inside becomes a wall 
and there occurs the lightning swift transformation 
of a mystery into a skin.
For this reason it is impossible to lay foundations 
for the psychology 
of a stone ball, 
of an iron bar, 
of a wooden cube.

The Tongue

Inadvertently I passed the border of her teeth and swallowed her agile tongue. It lives inside me now, like a Japanese fish. It brushes against my heart and my diaphragm as if against the walls of an aquarium. It stirs silt from the bottom.
She whom I deprived of a voice stares at me with big eyes and waits for a word.
Yet I do not know which tongue to use when speaking to her - the stolen one or the one which melts in my mouth from an excess of heavy goodness.

Translated by Czeslaw Milosz