Baruch Spinoza
Golden mist, the Occident illumines
the window. The assiduous manuscript
waits, already loaded with the infinite.
Someone is building God in the half-light.
A man begets God. He’s a jew,
sad-eyed and sallow-skinned;
time carries him as the river
carries a leaf on its declining waters.
Not important. The sorcerer insists
and carves God from refined geometry;
from sickness, from nothing,
God is erected from the word.
The most prodigious love was granted him,
the love that has no hope of being loved.
Translated by M. Salomon
A haze of gold, the Occident lights up
The window. Now, the assiduous manuscript
Is waiting, weighed down with the infinite.
Someone is building God in a dark cup.
A man engenders God. He is a Jew.
With saddened eyes and lemon-colored skin;
Time carries him the way a leaf, dropped in
A river, is borne off by waters to
Its end. No matter. The magician moved
Carves out his God with fine geometry;
From his disease, from nothing, he's begun
To construct God, using the word. No one
Is granted such prodigious love as he:
The love that has no hope of being loved.
Translated by Willis Barnstone
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