Thorn

I don’t believe
I don’t believe from the moment I rise
till the moment I fall asleep
I don’t believe from one shore
of my life to the other
I don’t believe
as openly
as deeply
as my mother did believe
I don’t believe
eating bread
drinking water
making love
I don’t believe
inside his shrines
I don’t believe on a city street
in a field in rain
in the open air
in the gold of annunciation
I read his parables
simple as a shock of wheat
and I think of a god
who did not laugh
I think of a small
god bleeding
in the white
shrouds of childhood
about a thorn which tears
our eyes lips
now
and at the hour of our death

(translated from Polish by Joanna Trzeciak)