The Cycle of days in the deserted sky turning
In silence watched by mortal eyes
Gaping mouth here below, where each hour is burning
So many cruel and beseeching cries;
All the stars slow in the steps of their dance,
The only fixed dance, mute brilliance on high,
In spite of us formless, nameless without cadence.
Too perfect, no fault to belie;
Toward them , suspended , our anger is vain.
Quench our thirst, if you must break our hearts.
Clamouring and desiring, their circle draws us in their train;
Our brilliant masters were forever victors.
Tear flesh apart, chains of pure clarity.
Nailed without a cry to the fixed point of the North,
Naked soul exposed to all injury,
May be obey you unto death.
Notebooks (OC 6:2:147-148)
Poetry and Poetics, Simone Weil : Thinking Poetically. Joan Dargan, State University of New York Press. 1999.