Aleksander Wat

                                          Before Breughel the Elder

Work is a blessing.
I tell you that, I–professional sluggard!
Who slobbered in so many prisons! Fourteen!
And in so many hospitals! Ten! And innumerable inns!
Work is a blessing.
How else could we deal with the lava of fratricidal love towards fellow men?
With those storms of extermination of all by all?
With brutality, bottomless and measureless?
With the black and white era which does not want to end
endlessly repeating itself da capo like a record
forgotten on a turntable
spinning by itself?
Or perhaps someone invisible watches over the phonograph? Horror!
How, if not for work, could we live in the paradise of social hygienists
who never soak their hands in blood without aseptic gloves?
How else could we cope with death?
That Siamese sister of life
who grows together with it–in us, and is extinguished with it
and surely for that reason is ineffective.
And so we have to live without end,
without end. Horror!
How, if not for work, could we cope with ineffective death
(Do not scoff!)
which is like a sea,
where everyone is an Icarus, one of nearly three billion,
while besides, so many things happen
and everything is equally unimportant, precisely, unimportant
although so difficult, so inhumanly difficult, so painful!
How then could we cope with all that?
Work is our rescue.
I tell you that–I, Breughel, the Elder (and I, for one,
your modest servant, Wat, Aleksander)–work is our rescue.

                                         Polish; trans. Czeslaw Milosz

Aleksander Wat, Polish, trans. Czeslaw Milosz, Postwar Polish Poetry: Third Expanded Edition,
University of California Press, 1983.