WITH THE WORLD CHAMPION

DISCUS THROWER

He holds the discus of the sun

in his hands,

plants his feet firmly

in the ground

and stands erect and naked

like a palm-tree

invading the clouds.

He steps backward,

the sun-discus shakes in his hands;

he squeezes it

and hurls it towards the sky.

Propelled by his anger,

the discus climbs and climbs,

and knocks at God's gate.

Things become clear:

refugee camps glittering in the desert,

canned cheese glittering in the hands

of children,

glittering are the children's tears,

glittering are our bones against the sand

glittering are the rebels' guns

across the fields and the mountains

Glittering are the rebels' eyes

lighting up the face of earth and sky

The sun discus falls

beyond the limits of space and time,

crosses the wound of yesterday,

and resettles in his hand.

And again he casts it

with all his anger

I marvelled

not at the eyes of the sun;

I marvelled at his feet,

his nervous tension,

his contraction,

his fear of falling

and losing control of himself,

his power of holding together,

his remarkable threshold of pain.