Night Vigil

Here, in the fist of my hand, is time—
I grip it with all my strength,
into marrow, bone, and skin.
 
For many days, many tears have fallen;
many have crossed the far plain.
Day and night they labour—
without promise, forbidden to think,
granted no holiday
by sun, moon, or star.
 
Here, clouds arrive on schedule;
on the earth, raindrops fall
like traps of death in disaster.
Love’s foolish call echoes,
but in the night’s long sleep
dreams do not touch the body.
The mind freezes into stillness;
 
Night vigil builds its restless images,
disturbing the heart.
On the road of the worker and the peasant
philosophy is forbidden thought.
Men rebel, hearing sermons,
and with loose steps
trample over the bodies of their own—
knowing nothing of distant opinion.
 
The mirror of pleasure is clouded
in the night;
there lies the found dream
of some great soul.
Dawn’s golden light, in a soft wind,
lays balm on the roots
of ancient bones.
 
The universe is hushed;
in the midnight union’s bruised mark,
sleep runs vein to vein,
leaving its touch on the body.
 
Yet the night vigil
teaches man to think:
to read history in solitude,
to pass through the hours of civilization,
to learn the path of justice in silence,
to wish to think of himself—
to test life’s opinions,
and claim this earth
for every independent thought.