The Cross

The sun was following me,

but it is now caught on the cross

on top of the church.

How can I get up

that high on the steeple?

No sound comes from the bell:

I might as well whistle and hang around.

If I were permitted my own cross,

like the man who suffered,

blessed Jesus Christ,

I would hang my head

and quietly bleed

blood that would blossom like a flower

under a darkening sky.

Translated by Kyung-nyun Kim Richards and Steffen F. Richards
From Sky, Wind and Stars.
Copyright © 2003 by Kyung-nyun Kim Richards and Steffen F. Richards.
Reprinted with the permission of Jain Publishing Company, Fremont, California (www.jainpub.com).