TE15 Lithuanian Honey Cake

Barbara Korun

Mother Theresa-mother-prior to a new nun Calcutta, the end of the second millennium Christ has knocked on the door. One more. He has no legs. His parents probably cut them off to make him a bagger. A wound instead of his face. He has no strength left to move his wooden chariot. Christ is waiting for you in front of the door. Hurry up. He could be squeezed by the hord running from the police. He could be eaten by the hungry wild dogs. Hurry up. He knows that he is going to die. That is why he has knocked on your door. You don’t know if he is the true Christ? Short hours of sleep are passing in too awakened fear: “Does God exist ?” Through the half-opened door the light pours into your room: “There is no God. The world is abandoned. Godless.”

Christ is waiting in front of your door. White shadows are running across the dark garden. You’ll hold his weightless body in your arms, his look in yours, the first and the last one. You’ll know then: he is your child. Go now.

Translated by Barbara Siegl Carlson

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