We have a soul at times.No one’s got it non-stop,for keeps.Day after day,year after yearmay pass without it.Sometimesit will settle for awhileonly in childhood’s fears and raptures.Sometimes only in astonishmentthat we are old.It rarely lends a handin uphill tasks,like moving furniture,or lifting luggage,or going miles in shoes that pinch.It usually steps outwhenever meat needs choppingor forms have to be filled.For every thousand conversationsit 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 advantageand creaky machinations make it sick.Joy and sorrowaren’t two different feelings for it.It attends usonly when the two are joined.We can count on itwhen we’re sure of nothingand curious about everything.Among the material objectsit favors clocks with pendulumsand mirrors, which keep on workingeven when no one is looking.It won’t say where it comes fromor when it’s taking off again,though it’s clearly expecting such questions.We need itbut apparentlyit needs usfor some reason too.
Wisława Szymborska
soul, wislawa-szymborska