“The Moon in Lleyn”: a poem by R.S. Thomas (1913-2000)

The last quarter of the moon

of Jesus gives way

to the dark; the serpent

digests the egg. Here

on my knees in this stone

church, that is full only

of the silent congregation

of shadows and the sea’s

sound, it is easy to believe

Yeats was right. Just as though

choirs had not sung, shells

have swallowed them; the tide laps

at the Bible; the bell fetches

no people to the brittle miracle

of bread. The sand is waiting

for the running back of the grains

in the wall into its blond

glass. Religion is over, and

what will emerge from the body

of the new moon, no one

can say.

But a voice sounds

in my ear. Why so fast,

mortal? These very seas

are baptized. The parish

has a saint’s name time cannot

unfrock. In cities that

have outgrown their promise people

are becoming pilgrims

again, if not to this place,

then to the recreation of it

in their own spirits. You must remain

kneeling. Even as this moon

making its way through the earth’s

cumbersome shadow, prayer, too,

has its phases.

Publicado por

Gabriel Rojo

Gabriel Rojo holds a degree in English from the UTN-INSPT, where he currently teaches 20th Century Culture, Language and Didactics. Gabriel is also a recording artist. His musical project, "The Tape Recorders," employs vocal samples from beloved poets and thinkers.

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