Nest Without Guilt
You’re the hen that lays the guilt:
your guilt, your poison, your feed.
You’re a guilt-laying hen.
You’re going downhill,
pushing your wheel;
the same guilt is a different guilt.
Guilt brings on the guilt-dance;
only guilt resembles guilt.
Which came first,
the guilt or the egg?
And if it weren’t guilt?
If the nest were life?
If everything ran by itself?
Don’t bring any guilt here,
don’t share it with me ...
We live stark naked;
stark naked there’s no guilt at all,
no devil, no angel at all.
The angels anchored,
desires so crooked tied to me ...
Saying to guilt once again,
“Guilt, dude, I pity you!”
Guilt is a wheel,
and it’s going downhill;
the same guilt is a different guilt,
and that’s why I tell you this:
“I have to bury you under the tree.
Don’t come out of the ground, don’t go back home!”
A guiltless man, a lightened gait.
A guiltless woman, moves with ease.
From guilt’s seed comes upward rise:
which came first,
the rose or the thorn?
Guilt looks like a Matryoshka doll:
the big one holds the littler ones inside.
Don’t say I’m the guilty one
who laid the guilt: lay off!
Don’t say I’m
the guilty one who laid the guilt.
Translated by Elizabeth Macklin