The Heavenly Feast

Simone Weil, 1909-1943 Only the stones at first Seem to have a part in this, And the little height of the grass As it gains a fraction-inch By gripping the shallow soil With all the shocking might Of hunger and of thirst, As if the soil itself Were all that's left on earth. I think the grass alone Can hold within its grasp What matters to it most, And still it looks bereft, And famished as the stones. I watch a stream of moths Proceeding on their ways, They carve out tortuous paths As if they were intent On entering unseen And ever-smaller doors. So four years into the war, And cut off from the ones Whose circumstance you felt And suffering as yours, You carved yourself a path Through ever-narrowing doors Of hunger and of thirst, And entered them day by day, Refusing all at first But that ration of food Your people could obtain Behind the lines in France, And then refusing that, From summer into fall You cut your ration back To send your part to them, Your part diminishing To rations cut in half And cut in half again, And then nothing at all But water at the last Sipped for the nurse's sake, You finally lacked the strength Even to lift your hands: Father, I cannot stand To think of them and eat. Send it to them, it is theirs. Send this food for them, For my people still in France. And turned your face away, As famished as the grass. Only the stones at first Seem to have a part in this, And the little height of the grass As it gains a fraction-inch. But hidden in the grass As if the grass itself Were giving out a cry, I overhear the finch Begin her native rhyme And toil to paraphrase Her version of your words. It seems she tries and tries Until the words come clear, It is theirs, she seems to say, Or that is what I hear, And again: It is theirs, it is theirs. And the plover joins in praise With her fluttering, murmured prayers: Send it to them, it is theirs. And the blackbirds breaking wide Take it up in their dialects To sing you in their way, I swear I can hear the words, Send it to them, they say, Send it to them, it is theirs, Then all the birds of the air Give thanks above your grave, As if they were your cause And those you meant to save, As if the birds were there In attendance at the end, And, seeing the sacrifice Had borne your body up, So wasted as it was, To your chair in Paradise, And saw, before they fled, Your first breathtaking act Before the heavenly feast, The bread set at your place: To refuse to eat till none On earth has less than you, Though God in pity take Your hands and lift them toward His table for your sake. Father, they have no food, Send it to them, it is theirs. And the birds returning here Give tongue to what they've heard, They tell the grass and stones And the stream of moths who carve Their tortuous paths in the air. But how in giving thanks Can we calculate the worth Of one who chose to starve? You held within your grasp Our hunger and our thirst. And the little height of the grass As it gains a fraction-inch Seems to have a part in this. It grips with a shocking might What matters to the last, As if the soil itself Were all that's left on earth, And all the earth were held Within its famished grasp.