Jul 9
A Note
by Wislawa Szymborksa tr. Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak
Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on sand, rise on wings;
to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur;
to tell pain from everything it’s not;
to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes;
An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off;
and if only once to stumble on a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another,
mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;
and to keep on not knowing something important.
