There are blows in life, so hard . . . I just don’t
know!
Blows as from God’s hatred; as if, before them,
the backwash of everything suffered
welled-up in the soul . . . I just don’t know!

They are few, but they are . . . They open
dark furrows 5
in the fiercest face and in the strongest back.
Perhaps they are the steeds of barbarian Attilas,
or the black heralds Death sends us.

They are the deep falls of the Christs of the
soul,
of some worshipping faith Destiny blasphemes. 10
Those bloody blows are the crackling
of some bread burning up on us at the oven door.

And man . . . Poor . . . poor man! Turns his
eyes, as
when a slap on the shoulder summons us;
turns his eyes wild, and everything lived 15
wells-up like a pool of guilt in his gaze.

There are blows in life, so hard . . . I just don’t
know!