Song Of Praise Poem by Tamir Greenberg

You, pure wickedness, sublime perpetuum mobile of agony, destruction, and bereavement,
Have you blessed progress, which perfects your language to the level of art?
Bless, wickedness, the wonderful airplane, lump of black steel
Carried on delicate streams of air, its greased belly loaded
With plenty of shiny metal eggs, lovely Easter for the children of Belgrade.
Bless the barrel’s bore, sensitive, sharp-eyed creature, whose generosity lets even a young man, poor, simple,
And not very talented, to win eternal fame in a splendid marble monument in the town square.
Bless and praise science, which has taken a bold step. Bless the sciences of chemistry, physics, and biology,
That spread their wisdom in a yellow, cheerful mist over cities, villages, and refugee camps.
Bless, wickedness, the joy of deportation, the beauty of expulsion, the grace of genocide and burning villages –
Superb gems cherished by rulers more than any palace or pretty escort.
Rejoice in Kosovo and Hebron, in Auschwitz and Hiroshima, good cities where you found shelter.
Bless the next generation, too. Bless the migrant worker’s son, warm, innocent flesh,
An object desired for injury, malady, and pestilence. Bless his father and mother, too,
Who promote a brisk business for the people of the promised land.
Bless the love of God returned to the hearts of man at the end of the millennium,
For no cannon or gun barrel can promise you grandeur like a single verse from a sacred book.
Bless television sets that spread your magnificent work all across the world. And please bless
Me and those like me, people of heart and morals, sitting comfortably in rooms, writing a chopped line,
Bathing in the richness of metaphor.

Bless, wickedness, bless, bless,
Blossom, wickedness, blossom and prosper,
Rub your hands in satisfaction
While you consider human intelligence,
For you are destined for greatness.