terça-feira, outubro 08, 2013

A Few Words on the Soul We have a soul at times. No one’s got it non-stop, for keeps. Day after day, year after year may pass without it. Sometimes/ it will settle for awhile/ only in childhood’s fears and raptures./ Sometimes only in astonishment/ that we are old./ It rarely lends a hand/ in uphill tasks,/ like moving furniture,/ or lifting luggage,/ or going miles in shoes that pinch./ It usually steps out/ whenever meat needs chopping/ or forms have to be filled./ For every thousand conversations/ it participates in one,/ if even that,/ since it prefers silence./ Just when our body goes from ache to pain,/ it slips off-duty./ It’s picky:/ it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,/ our hustling for a dubious advantage/ and creaky machinations make it sick./ Joy and sorrow/ aren’t two different feelings for it./ It attends us/ only when the two are joined./ We can count on it/ when we’re sure of nothing/ and curious about everything./ Among the material objects/ it favors clocks with pendulums/ and mirrors, which keep on working/ even when no one is looking./ It won’t say where it comes from/ or when it’s taking off again,/ though it’s clearly expecting such questions./ We need it/ but apparently/ it needs us for some reason too.

2 comentários:

Anónimo disse...

I hope yours will soon get on duty!

Anónimo disse...

Não sei dizer porquê, mas quando leio Szymborska vêm-me sempre à memória uns versos do Prufrock, do T.S. Eliot: I grow old … I grow old …/ I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.