The Ball
As long as nothing can be
known for sure
(no signals have been picked up yet),
as long as Earth is
still unlike
the nearer and more distant planets,
as long as there's neither
hide nor hair
of other grasses graced by other winds,
of other treetops
bearing other crowns,
other animals as well-grounded as our own,
as long as only the local
echo
has been known to speak in syllables,
as long as we still haven't
heard word
of better or worse mozarts,
platos, edisons
somewhere,
as long as our inhuman
crimes
are still committed only between humans,
as long as our
kindness
is still incomparable,
peerless even in its
imperfection,
as long as our heads packed
with illusions
still pass for the only heads so packed,
as long as the roofs of our
mouths alone
still raise voices to high heavens--
let's act like very special
guests of honor
at the district-firemen's ball
dance to the beat of the
local oompah band,
and pretend that it's the ball
to end all
balls.
I can't speak for
others--
for me this is
misery and happiness enough:
just this sleepy
backwater
where even the stars have time to burn
while winking at
us
unintentionally.
~ Wislawa Szymborska
~
(Monologue of a Dog: New Poems,
translated by C. Cavanagh and S. Baranczak)
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