Translated from the Polish by Walter Whipple
If there are angels
they probably don't read
our novels
about disappointed hopes.
I'm afraid -- unfortunately --
that they don't read our poems, either,
which are full of grudges toward the world.
The shrieks and twitches
of our plays
must -- I suspect --
bore them.
In their breaks from angel-work,
or rather non-human work
they prefer to watch
our comedians
from the age of the silent movies.
More than the lamenters
who tear their clothes
and gnash their teeth
they appreciate, I think,
the poor wretch
who grabs the drowning man by his toupé
or who eats his own shoelace out of starvation.
From the waist up: breasts and aspirations
and below a frightened mouse
in his pant leg.
Oh, yes
this must heartily amuse them.
Ring-around-the-rosies
transforms into running from the pursued.
The light in the tunnel
turns out to be the eye of a tiger.
A hundred catastrophies
are a hundred amusing sommersaults
above a hundred abysses.
If there are angels,
they should be convinced, I hope,
by merriment
swinging above terror,
not even calling "help, help"
because all this happens in silence.
I dare suppose
that they are clapping their wings
and that tears are flooding their eyes,
especially tears of laughter.
