Sunday Poem

A Ball

It is going on inside a transparent ball
Above which God the Father, short, with a trimmed beard,
Sits with a book, enveloped in dark clouds.
He reads an incantation and things are called into being.
As soon as the earth emerges, it bears grasses and trees.
We are those to whom green hills have been offered
And for us this ray descends from opened mists.
Whose hand carries the ball? Probably the Son’s.
And the whole Earth is in it, Paradise and Hell.

by Czeslaw Milosz
Unattainable Earth
Ecco Press, 1986