Meditações - The clock of my whole being is slow

Here

I am a man now.

Pass your hand over my brow.

You can feel the place where the brains grow.

 

I am like a tree,

From my top boughs I can see

The footprints that led up to me.

 

There is blood in my veins

That has run clear of the stain

Contracted in so many loins.

 

Why, then, are my hands red

With the blood of so many dead?

Is this where I was misled?

 

Why are my hands this way

That they will not do as I say?

Does no God hear when I pray?

 

I have no where to go

The swift satellites show

The clock of my whole being is slow,

 

It is too late to start

For destinations not of the heart.

I must stay here with my hurt.

R.S. Thomas, in Tares (1961)