The counting of weekdays would inevitably seem to be a senseless activity; dropping letters in the mailbox a whim of foolish youth; the sign "No Walk… - Wisława Szymborska

I am who I am.
A coincidence no less unthinkable
than any other.

We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.

Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.

Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.

It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.

For every thousand conversations
it 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 advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.

Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.

We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.

Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.

It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.

Ista nas zvezda u istom radijusu drži.
Na osnovu istih zakona bacamo senke.
Pokušavamo nešto da saznamo, svako na svoj način,
a i ono što ne znamo zajedničko nam je.

Kako znam i umem, objasniću, samo pitajte:
šta je to gledati očima,
zašto mi srce kuca
i zbog čega moje telo nije pustilo korenje.

Ali kako odgovarati na nepostavljena pitanja,
ako si uz to neko
za vas veoma ništavan.