Adélia Prado

THIS IS NOT BLASPHEMY

God doesn't possess a will. I do,
because I'm impressionable and small
and I haven't had a moment's peace for many years,
                      since I first set eyes on Jonathan.
My eyes, and then my soul.
To this day, I haven't wanted anything else.
How would I be judged,
if my fear disappeared, my fear of hell
and the face of an angry God?
The prince of wisdom is—instead of fear—
my courage to hurry off to wherever he is.
My heart doesn't think,
and I am my heart and its tireless desire.
To our astonishment, the girl said:
"It's impossible to think about God."
And that's been my mistake all along:
God doesn't exist as thinkable.
I can't describe Jonathan's forehead for you,
but when he touches me I'm sitting in God's lap,
a lap that doesn't refuse me.
Just so,
I carry out the design, the will of the divine:
Your chin, now, Jonathan,
your almost sneer of a smile,
your way of not seeing me.
I sculpt God's beauty.



Original title “Não Blasfemo,” from A Faca no Peito, p.77
Translated by Ellen Doré Watson

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