 |
|
|
||
|
Man, if you want to create something perfect, why don’t you plant five pieces of bean in a crook, about one centimeter below the soil. Place it in the sun, water it now and then and wait for the miracle. The miracle will happen if you expect it with a palpitating heart. A wonder, the perfect creation will be born. The power that moves mountains, is bean-size in the small seed, but it is strong enough the crust of the earth, and a small green swelling appears where the bean was. Then it splits in half, but what from? On whose orders? The bean divides into two halves and next to it are sleeping two tiny leaves with thousand of tinier veins. These you could not find five or six days before, in the hard, cold seed. Before your eyes the two leaflets rise from the bean, stretch and gaze at the sun with wonder. Lord! My Lord! I have created life just like Thou! I created life on earth! Behold! Life from nothing, from the cold black earth! And the Lord smiles with grace and forgiveness: Create oh Man, feel like God for a few more springs and then your material as well, will become the vessel of fecund wonders. But the man simpleton understands not God’s smile and happily admires his perfect “Creation”. Man is God’s least perfect creation. If you only knew how much more a snail is a snail than man is human, surely you would feel ashamed. And why? The bean sprout does not want to become a giraffe or the snail a lion and so it will be a perfect bean and a perfect snail. But Man wants to be God and thus misses perfection. Later when he mingles with the earth once more he obediently helps a new miracle, waiting to be brought into existence by his great, great grand children. Let us observe further. The tiny stem is strong and proud, holding the two halves of the bean cradle, opening the sails of leaves. They are hardly bigger than a coin but already bear perfection. Man! Artist! You shall not be able to create anything more perfect to your immortality than a bean sprout. My eyes can not have enough of the miracle, I touch it with my lips like a disbelieving happy lover. Barely can I stand my bliss, and I too dream of being God. Judit Hagner
Translation: Hubert G. Wells |
||
Pagedesign: Denise Paturaud