To my daimonion / Czeslaw Milosz

I.

Please, my daimonion, ease off just a bit,
I am still closing accounts and have much to tell.
Your rhythmical whispers intimidate me.
Today, for instance, reading about a certain old woman
I saw again – let us call her Priscilla,
Though I am astonished that I can give her any name
And people will not care. So, that Priscilla,
Her gums in poor shape, an old hag,
Is the one to whom I return, in order to throw charms
And grant her eternal youth. I introduce a river,
Green hills, irises wet with rain
And, of course, a conversation. ‘You know,’ I say,
‘I could never guess what was on your mind
And I will never learn. I have a question
That won’t be answered.’ And you, daimonion
Just at this moment interfere, interrupt us, averse to
Surnames and family names’ actualities,
Too prosaic and ridiculous, no doubt.

II.

My daimonion, it is certain that I could not have lived differently
I would have perished if not for you. Your incantation
Would resound in my ear, fill me,
And I could only repeat it, instead of thinking
About my bad character, the decline of the world,
Or about a lost laundry ticket.
And it seems that while others loved,
Strove, hated, despaired,
I have only been busy with listening intently
To your unclear notes, to change them into words,
I had to accept my fate, today called karma,
For it was as it was, though I did not chose it -
And get up every day to honor the work,
Even if there is no guilt of mine in it and no merit.

III.

Two five-year-old boys before a poster of a nightclub,
On which a buoyant girl adjusts her garter,
Say something to each other or just stare
At the saurian whiteness of the thigh.

Daimonion, remembering my childhood fears
On this earth of adults, I grasped who you are.

In their night of distant shooting, fires on the horizon,
Coarse laughter, grapplings, harsh breathing,
The heart of a child is troubled. And you, a wanderer,
Your pity is so strong that you avert your face.

You are a friend of the innocent and the defenseless
Who long for the Kingdom, as was that young rich man
So pure that he blushed hearing a lewd word,
And really suffered from it, and probably for that reason
After his short life, they raised him on the altars.

Czeslaw Milosz, from: ‘Facing the River’ published in 1995

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