by T S Eliot

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.


Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to satiety
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the Virgin in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of the day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.


At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jagged, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an aged shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy
but speak the word only.


Who walked between the violet and the violet
Who walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile


If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

O my people.


Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessed sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

나는 다시 돌아서기를 바라지 않기에
나는 바라지 않기에
나는 돌아서기를 바라지 않기에
이 사람의 재능과 저 사람의 능력을 욕망하며
이젠 그런 것들을 위해 분투하려 하지 않노라
(왜 늙은 독수리가 날개를 펴야 하랴?)
왜 내가 애도해야 하랴
사라진 속세의 권세의 힘을?

나는 현실적인 시간의 가냘픈 영광을
다시 알고 싶지 않기에
나는 생각하지 않기에
나는 단 하나의 정말 덧없는 권력을
알지 못할 거라고 알고 있기에,
나는 나무가 꽃 피고 샘물이 흐르는 곳에서
마실 수 없기에, 왜냐하면 거기엔 다시 아무 것도 없기 때문에

나는 시간이 항상 시간이고
장소는 언제나, 그리고 단지 장소일 뿐임을
그리고 현실적인 것은 단 하나의 시간과
단 하나의 장소에서 현실적임을 알고 있기에
나는 사물이 현재 있는 그대로임을 기뻐하노라 그리고
나는 저 축복받은 얼굴을 거부하고
저 목소리를 거부한다

내가 다시 돌아서기를 바랄 수 없기에
결국 나는 기뻐한다, 기쁨의 터전이 될
어떤 것을 지어야 하니까
그리고 하나님이 우리에게 자비를 베풀도록 기도하고
나는 내 자신과 지나치게 토론하고
지나치게 설명하는
이런 일들을 잊어버리게 해 달라고 기도하노라.
나는 다시 돌아서기를 바라지 않기에
이 말들이 행해진 것과 다시 행해지지 말 것에 대한
대답이 되게 하소서
심판이 우리에게 너무 가혹치 않게 하소서

이 날개들이 이젠 날개가 못 되고
단지 공기를 두들기는 날개에 지나지 않기에,
이제 철저히 희박하고 메마른,
의지보다도 더 희박하고 더 메마른 공기를,
우리에게 가르쳐 주소서 관심 갖는 법과 관심 갖지 않는 법을
우리에게 가르쳐 주소서 가만히 앉아 있는 법을

우리 죄인들을 위해 기도하소서 지금 우리의 죽음의 시각에
우리 죄인들을 위해 기도하소서 지금 우리의 죽음의 시각에.
[출처] 재의 수요일 Ash Wednesday – T. S. Eliot|작성자 두꺼비

초등학교 시절, 마치 친구들끼리 같이 이사 가기로 약속이라도 한 것처럼 주위에는 신도시로 전학을 가는 학생들이 많았다. 나 역시 그 중 하나였다. 모두가 비슷한 시기에 서울을 떠나 분당과 일산 가운데 한 곳으로 향했다.
자유로를 타고 흔히 말하는 똥냄새를 맡으며 1 시간가량을 달려서 도착한 일산은 신도시라는 이름이 무색 하게 시골에 가까운 느낌이었다. 학교에 가는 길마저 아스팔트 포장이 되어 있지 않았으며 한 반의 친구들 전체 숫자가 10 명도 채 되지 않았다. 나는 신도시 개발 초기부터 거주 했던지라 도시의 개발과 확장 과정을 누구보다 가까이에서 느낄 수 있었다. 당시에는 ‘○○ 마을’ 같은 이름으로 단지를 나누는 게 유행이었는데 아마도 끝도 없이 이어지는 아파트가 사람이 살만한 곳으로 보다 친근하게 느껴지도록 하기 위한 시도였는지도 모르겠다. 그렇게 ‘마을’이 하나둘 늘어나면서 도시가 확장 되었지만 사실 어릴 적 나의 눈에는 상가, 아파트, 역 주위는 이름만 다를 뿐 모두가 너무나 똑같아 보였다. 학교의 외관이나 운동장 크기마저 거의 유사 했고 다른 학교와의 간격마저 마치 자로 잰 듯 일정하여 소름이 돋을 정도 였다.

신도시는 신기하게도 도시의 시작과 끝이 눈에 보이게 뚜렷한데 나는 바로 그 경계에 살았다. 행정구역상으로는 소위 일산 ‘신도시’였지만 아파트가 병풍처럼 둘러싼 집 앞으로는 넓은 논과 뜸하게 반짝거리는 비닐하우스가 펼쳐졌다. 신도시가 건설되기 전부터 이 지역에 살았던 친구와는 논에 나가 개구리를 잡았고 서울에서 전학 온 친구와는 피시방을 갔다. 내가 살았던 곳은 도시일까 아니면 시골일까? 과연 이것을 규정지을 수 있을까?

이웃 ‘마을’에 사는 친구 집에 놀러가려면 울타리로 둘러싸인 텅 빈 구역을 약 30 분쯤 걸어야 했다. 네모 반듯하게 일정한 크기로 나누어진 땅은 마치 아스팔트 도로로 선을 그어놓은 거대한 바둑판처럼 느껴졌다. 몇 년이 지난 후 텅 빈 바둑판에 획일적인 건물들이 가득차면서 이곳에 대한 궁금증은 더 이상 생기지 않았다. 대신 신도시의 획일화된 모습과 앞으로 이어질 도시 계획을 떠올리며 지독한 염증을 느끼게 되었다.

Back when I was in elementary school, there were lots of students who moved to new towns as if they had all promised to do so. Strangely, I was one of them. Around the same time, we all left Seoul and headed to a newly developed city, Ilsan. At the end of the road there was a country-like city which was still called a New Town. A dirt road passed through the town on the way to school, and there were less than 10 students in a class. I closely watched as to how the city was developing while I lived there.

Back then, all of the apartment complexes in the new town were named “~Village”, and I assumed that it was for the familiarity to people. The new city had expanded as more “villages” were built, but it all looked the same to me, especially those areas near shopping quarters, apartments, and the subway station. There were a certain size to all of the buildings and school playgrounds, and even the distance between every school seemed fixed. Interestingly enough, a new town clearly reflected both the beginning and the end of its inception but i lived on the border of its creation. According to the administrative district, the official name of the town was “Newtown” but all I saw was the spread of apartment complexes like a folding screen with rice paddies and vinyl greenhouses littered in front. A friend who had lived in the town before it was built would go with me to the rice paddies to catch frogs, while another friend, who was a newcomer like me, would go with me to play computer games in a nearby pc room. Was this place that I called home the country or the city? I wonder if anyone could possibly answer this riddle.

In order to visit friends in neighboring towns, i had to cross empty spaces surrounded by fences. This journey would take me 30 minutes. This space was the shape of an exact square as if someone had measured it into existence with a ruler and had the pattern of a baduk board. It was fun to imagine how this empty space would transform. As years passed, the baduk board was filled to the brim with tall square figures and my wonderment of the city’s future grew in intensity. On the other hand, the uniformity of new town became suffocating.