And the Lord said, ‘‘Behold, the people is one and they have all one
language....
Go to, let us go down, and there confuse their language, that they
may not understand one another’s speech.’’
—genesis XI: 6, 7.When God confused our languages, he uttered,
in sapphire tones: ‘‘Let there be translators!’’
And there were conjurors and necromancers
and alchemists, but they did not su≈ce:
they turned trees into emeralds, pools to seas.
God spoke again: ‘‘Let there be carpenters
who fasten edges, caulk the seams, splice timbers.’’
They were good.
God said: ‘‘Blessed is the builder
who leaves his tower, turns from bricks and mortar
to marvel at the flames, the smith who fumbles
for prongs, wields andirons, and prods live coals,
who stokes the hearth and welds two irons as one.’’
Praised was the man who wrote his name in other
handwriting, who spoke in other tones,
who, knowing elms, imagined ceiba trees
and cypresses as though they were his own,
finding new music in each limitation.
Holy the one who lost his speech to others,
subdued his pen, resigned his failing sight
to change through fire’s change, until he saw
earth’s own fire, the radiant rock of words.
—Grace Schulman, ‘‘Let There Be Translators!’’