a little bit about the soul

a poem by Wisława Szymborska translated from Polish

A soul is something we have every now and then. 

Nobody has one all the time

or forever.

Day after day,

year after year,

can go by without one.

Only sometimes in rapture

or in the fears of childhood

it nests a little longer.

Only sometimes in the wonderment

that we are old.

It rarely assists us

during tiresome tasks,

such as moving furniture,

carrying suitcases,

or traveling on foot in shoes too tight.

When we’re filling out questionnaires

or chopping meat

it’s usually given time off.

Out of our thousand conversations

it participates in one,

and even that isn’t a given,

for it prefers silence.

When the body starts to ache and ache

it quietly steals from its post.

It’s choosy:

not happy to see us in crowds,

sickened by our struggle for any old advantage

and the drone of business dealings.

It doesn’t see joy and sorrow

as two different feelings.

It is with us

only in their union.

We can count on it

when we’re not sure of anything

and curious about everything.

Of all material objects

it likes grandfather clocks

and mirrors, which work diligently

even when no one is looking.

It doesn’t state where it comes from

or when it will vanish again,

but clearly it awaits such questions.

Evidently,

just as we need it,

it can also use us

for something.