Wisława Szymborska

LUGGAGE OF RETURN

A section of small graves at the cemetery.
We, the long-lived, pass by stealthily,
like the rich bypass the neighborhoods of the poor.

Here lie Zosia, Jacek, and Dominik,
prematurely robbed of the sun, the moon,
the changing of the seasons, the clouds.

Not much has been packed in the luggage of return.
Fragments of sights
in not too plural numbers.
A handful of air with a butterfly in flight.
A sip of bitter knowledge about the taste of medicine.

Small disobediences,
one of which is deadly.
The merry chase of a ball down the street.
Skating happily on thin ice.

That one over there and the one beside, and those to the side:
before they could grow tall enough to reach the doorknob,
to spoil a watch,
to smash their first glass.

Malgosia, four years old,
two of which spent lying down looking at the ceiling.

Rafalek: he was one month shy of five,
and Basia the Christmas festivities
with the mist of breath in the frost.

What can one say of a day of life,
of a minute, of a second:
darkness, a light bulb flickers on, darkness again?

KOSMOS MAKROS
CHRONOS PARADOXOS (*)
Only the Greek on the stone has words for this.

"(*) 'The universe is vast, time is astonishing'"
If there were a god, a child would never die.
Eric Clapton - Tears In Heaven (Official Video)