Once the God was sleeping in the sky,
Like a baby, snuffling in the pillow,
When he heard a silent, bitter cry
From a little house by the willow.
‘All my harvest’s cindered by the sun, -
Cried the miller, - if I only could
Buy a glass of milk for little son,
I would build a temple in the wood’.
And the God felt sorry for this man,
And he said to stop him from the whine,
‘If there is no work for you on land,
You can handle the windmills of mine’.
Everyone was happy from the deal.
Just there was a little drop of grief
In the eyes of hers, packing the meal
For her husband’s unexpected leave.
‘Please, come back, come early’, whispered love.
But he didn’t hear, closed the door,
With the stairs of heaven climbed above
To one million six hundredth floor.
With the smile, carried every bag,
Every time a ton of purest flour,
Was not thinking of his sore back
But of little son that gave him power.
Once the girl went out to collect
Drying clothes hanging on the line.
When she saw the river, full of milk,
Fresh and steaming, odorous and fine.
Filled a jar and brought to little son
For his bones to grow tough and strong,
So that he could walk, and play, and run
On the sunny meadow all day long.
‘Now he comes’, she thought but he did not.
He was watching her from his stronghold,
‘How I wish she had a pretty dress!
Now her dress is clouted and old’.
And another ton, another bag,
Clenching teeth and counting, and seven
Billions needles sticking in his back.
There is so much suffering in heaven!
Very early, right at 6 o’clock,
In a little house with the cot,
She woke up with someone’s gentle knock.
‘Now he comes’, she thought but he did not.
Little bluebirds with the yellow cheeks
Flitted with the morning sprinkling haze,
Holding in the tiny reddish beaks
Something white of finest, thinnest lace.
And another ton, another bag,
Bravely marching on the Milky Way.
Something crackled in his tired back
And the pain did not go away.
And he stumbled, and the bag was gone,
And the bag slipped out of his hand…
He was watching flour, like the snow,
Whirling down on the dormant land.
‘Winter! Winter!’ cried the grumpy owl.
And the frost was unexpected guest
In the house where, wrapped in the shawl,
Little baby slept by the mother’s chest.
‘Dear God! I failed for the job.
And I failed for your endless grace.
You can force me out. Make me stop’,
Said the miller with the blushing face.
‘No, there is no blame on you, my son, -
Said the God and smiled, - this is fine.
But I’m firing you because someone
Needs you more than all windmills of mine.
You forgot why you are working hard,
Who you are and what you started from.
Go and melt with all your loving heart
Icy chains of your own home!’
***
Here is the willow, all in snow.
But inside there is a little light.
If you listen, you can hear a song
Flowing through the darkness of the night.
It’s a song for those who don’t return
And for those who think: come back or not?
To remind those who work to burn
Of the purpose that they all forgot.
It will help all those who lost the way,
Way to love, and light, and all the good,
And then, very slowly, fade away
By a little temple in the wood.