Saturday, January 16, 2010

Wislawa Szymborska

In a greenish sky
a cloud even more grey
with a black outline from the sun.
On the left, that is, on the right,
a white cherry branch with black blossoms.
On your dark face light shadows.
You have sat down at a small table
and laid your greyed hands on it.
You seem like a ghost
trying to summon the living.
(Because I'm still counted among them,
I should appear to him and tap:
good night, that is, good morning,
farewell, that is, hello.
Not begrudging him questions to any answer
if they concern life,
that is, the storm before the calm,)

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