Sanah - Hymn (J. Słowacki)

Sad am I, O God.
Westward Thou hast out-poured a rainbow of burning colours,
and before my eyes Thou dost extinguish, in the sapphire deep,
the fiery star.

Like empty wheat-ears with faces lifted high
I stand, unsated by delight or plenty.
To strangers I show but one countenance—
the stillness of unending blue.

Though Thou so gildest the sea and the firmament,
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.
Yet will I bare to Thee the hidden chamber of my breast:
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.

As a child laments at a mother’s departing,
so am I nigh unto weeping.
I behold the sun that flings from the wave
its last, paling gleam.

To-day, distraught upon the vast main—
a hundred miles astern, a hundred miles ahead of shore—
I saw storks arrowing through the open heavens,
rank on silent rank.

Once I had known them over Polish fallow-lands;
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.
And though I know to-morrow fresh dawns will kindle,
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.

I have mused often beside the graves of men;
I have scarcely tasted my father’s hearth.
A pilgrim, labouring along the storm-lit road,
I pressed my way through thunder’s blinding flare.

Thou shalt behold my whitening bones
uncommitted to the guardian pomp of pillars;
and I am as a man who envies ashes their repose.

Therefore—because Thou preparest for me an unknown couch—
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.
And because I know not where my dust shall find a pillow,
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.

In my homeland an innocent child has been bidden
to pray for me each day;
yet I well know my ship sails not homeward,
but ranges upon the world.

Upon that mighty bow of radiance
Thy angels have unfurled across the firmament,
new mortals, a hundred years hence, shall gaze—
and pass away.

And since a child’s soft prayer can avail me naught,
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.
Ere I bow beneath my own nothingness,
my heart is sore—
my heart is sore, O Lord.