Weekend Poetry | "Here" by Wislawa Szymborska

Nobel Prize winner, Wislawa Szymborska

Here

I don’t know about other places,

but here on Earth there’s quite a lot of everything.

Here chairs are made and sadness,

scissors, violins, tenderness, transistors,

water dams, jokes, teacups.

Maybe somewhere else there is more of everything,

only for some reason there are no paintings there,

cathode-ray tubes, dumplings, tissues for tears.

There are plenty of places here with surroundings.

Some you can particularly get to like,

name them your own way

and protect them from evil.

Maybe somewhere else there are similar places,

But no one considers them beautiful.

Maybe like nowhere else, or in few other places,

here you have your own body trunk,

and with it the tools needed,

to add your children to those of others.

Besides that your hands, legs, and the amazed head.

Ignorance here is hard at work,

constantly measuring, comparing, counting,

drawing conclusions and finding square roots.

I know, I know what you’re thinking.

Nothing is permanent here,

for since ever forever in the power of the elements.

But notice—the elements get easily tired

and sometimes they have to take a long rest

before the next time.

And I know what else you’re thinking.

Wars, wars, wars.

But even between them there happen to be breaks.

Attention—people are evil.

At ease—people are good.

At attention we produce wastelands.

At ease by the sweat of our brows we build houses

and quickly live in them.

Life on earth turns out quite cheap.

For dreams for instance you don’t pay a penny.

For illusions—only when they’re lost.

For owning a body—only with the body.

And as if this was not enough,

you spin without a ticket in the carousel of the planets,

and along with it, dodging the fare, in the blizzard of galaxies,

through eras so astounding,

that nothing here on Earth can even twitch on time.

For take a good look:

the table stands where it stood,

on the table the paper, exactly as placed,

through the window ajar just a waft of the air,

and in the walls no terrifying cracks,

through which you could be blown out to nowhere.