Andrew Hudgins - How Shall We Sing the Lord's Song in a Strange Land? [tekst, tłumaczenie i interpretacja piosenki]

We crept up, watched a black
man shovel dry bursts of dirt
into the air. Engrossed,
he didn't see me till
my friend hawked hard and then
stepped out of sight. The man
jerked back, convinced I'd come
to spit on him. Held there
by guilt that wasn't fairly mine,
I braced for what he'd say.
Instead, he smiled, forgave
the sin I hadn't sinned,
and turned back to his work.
I stumbled off and yelled,
Goddamn you! at my friend,
who laughed. Behind us, sand
exploded from the hole, caught wind,
and drifted slowly down
past headstones. Within a month
two boys found the black man hanging
from a hickory, his face
vague in a mis of gnats.
And every time they told the story
the gnats grew thicker, fiercer.
But I believed. I ached
the guiltless ache of dreams
and shuddered. A family that
I never saw mourned him.
Their lives changed and that change
spread out past my small-by
imaging -- though I
tried hard to follow it,
at twelve already remembering
how, ten years old, I'd stand
before the mirror and aim
a flashlight in my mouth.
White cheeks glowed red. I knew
that when I flicked the switch
I would no loner shine
with bloodlight, like stained glass.
I would return to the flesh
I'd always been. Back then,
I thought that if I could
I'd forgive nothing -- I'd
change everything. But that's
before I learned how we
get trapped inside the haunts
and habits of this world.
While we drink coffee, gossip,
my cousin's daughter pounds on
the piano. It drives me nuts.
But Ellen's used to it.
The child plays till she drops,
and then we lug her
-- elongated and limp -- to bed.
My cousin tuckers her in,
chooses one music box
from dozens on a shelf, winds it,
and sets it by her child's
damp head. The girl hums, drifts
from one world she creates
into another. A dark
circle of drool surrounds her head.
My cousin loves her with
the tenderness we save
for something that will ruin
our lives, break us, nail
us irretrievably
into this world, which we,
like good philosophers,
had meant to hate. This world,
this world is home. But it
will never feel like home.