среда, 07. септембар 2011.


An old village church full of light,
of women in their kerchiefs and gray haired old men,
of children who have just learned to walk or still are at the breast,
the ancient shroud of Christ put out before the altar,
decorated with lily-of-the- valley flowers.

The icon lamp at the door cast a flickering light,

the semidarkness has a scent of incense and of candles.
Christ lies there helpless, his body full of wounds,
and round his brow is fixed the crown of thorns;
the pallor of his face is paler than the moonlight --
he's the most pitiful of all earth's mortals.

Soon it will be two thousands years

since he was crucified,
yet village women still choke from crying,
and people are sorry that they weren't alive then
when he was crucified
so that the executioners could have seen their God.

The sexton stands silent, frozen at the porch;
the sky and church yard are filled with deepest darkness.
Two frozen women, anxious to go home,
in whispers ask the sexton
will Jesus soon be rising from the dead.

Desanka Maksimović

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