Here, a poem by Wisława Szymborska
I don’t know about elsewhere
But here on Earth we’ve got a vast supply of everything.
Here, manufactured are chairs
And sadness,
Scissors, violins,
Tenderness, transistors,
Water dams, jokes,
Teacups.
Perhaps somewhere else, there is more of everything,
Only for some unspecified reason,
Somewhere else there are no paintings,
Cathode-ray tubes, pierogi, tissues for tears.
Here are countless places within places.
Of some, you can become especially fond,
Even name them in your own way
And protect them from evil.
Perhaps somewhere else there are similar places,
But, no one considers them beautiful.
Perhaps like nowhere else or almost nowhere
Here, you are given your individual torso
Equipped with necessary tools
For adding yours to children of others.
Then also arms, legs and
Your astounded head.
Here, ignorance is overworked,
Constantly measuring, comparing, counting,
Drawing conclusions and finding
Square roots.
I know, I know what you’re thinking.
Here, nothing is permanent
For since forever and always here’s at mercy of the elements
Of nature.
But notice — the elements easily tire
And sometimes must rest for so very long
Before their next time.
I know what else you’re thinking.
Wars, wars, wars.
But breaks too occur between wars.
Attention — people are evil.
At ease — people are good.
At attention, wastelands are produced.
At ease, you rest in brow’s sweat as you build homes
And live in them for a short while.
Life on Earth turns out quite the bargain.
For dreams, for instance, you don’t pay a penny.
For illusions — only when they’re lost.
For possessing a body — only with the body.
And as if that’s still not enough,
Without having to purchase a ticket,
You get to spin around on the carousel of planets,
And with it, crash in, on the intergalactic blizzard
So dizzyingly astounding that before anything, nothing here on Earth
can even utter a twitch.
Take a good look:
The table stands where it stood
On the table, a piece of paper, exactly as placed
Through a slightly ajar window, wafts a wisp of air
Yet, the walls host no terrifying cracks
Through which you could be blown out to nowhere.
But here on Earth we’ve got a vast supply of everything.
Here, manufactured are chairs
And sadness,
Scissors, violins,
Tenderness, transistors,
Water dams, jokes,
Teacups.
Perhaps somewhere else, there is more of everything,
Only for some unspecified reason,
Somewhere else there are no paintings,
Cathode-ray tubes, pierogi, tissues for tears.
Here are countless places within places.
Of some, you can become especially fond,
Even name them in your own way
And protect them from evil.
Perhaps somewhere else there are similar places,
But, no one considers them beautiful.
Perhaps like nowhere else or almost nowhere
Here, you are given your individual torso
Equipped with necessary tools
For adding yours to children of others.
Then also arms, legs and
Your astounded head.
Here, ignorance is overworked,
Constantly measuring, comparing, counting,
Drawing conclusions and finding
Square roots.
I know, I know what you’re thinking.
Here, nothing is permanent
For since forever and always here’s at mercy of the elements
Of nature.
But notice — the elements easily tire
And sometimes must rest for so very long
Before their next time.
I know what else you’re thinking.
Wars, wars, wars.
But breaks too occur between wars.
Attention — people are evil.
At ease — people are good.
At attention, wastelands are produced.
At ease, you rest in brow’s sweat as you build homes
And live in them for a short while.
Life on Earth turns out quite the bargain.
For dreams, for instance, you don’t pay a penny.
For illusions — only when they’re lost.
For possessing a body — only with the body.
And as if that’s still not enough,
Without having to purchase a ticket,
You get to spin around on the carousel of planets,
And with it, crash in, on the intergalactic blizzard
So dizzyingly astounding that before anything, nothing here on Earth
can even utter a twitch.
Take a good look:
The table stands where it stood
On the table, a piece of paper, exactly as placed
Through a slightly ajar window, wafts a wisp of air
Yet, the walls host no terrifying cracks
Through which you could be blown out to nowhere.
