Långfredag. Ur The Waste Land av T.S. Eliot

Långfredagen tillbringar jag i stillhet. Åtminstone en dag om året (två, med askonsdagen) vill jag vara eftertänksam och inte automatiskt sträcka mig efter nästa munsbit eller förströelse när allvaret sänker sig. I The Waste Land formulerar T.S. Eliot de känslor av evighet och litenhet som blir kvar när de moderna människorna lämnat religionen bakom sig. Här några rader ur den femte delen av dikten. Fortsättning följer på annandag påsk.

V. WHAT THE THUNDER SAID AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying	325
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience	330
Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink	335
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit	340
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses                                  If there were water	345
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring	350
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock	355
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water