"a view with a grain of sand" wislawa szymborska


we call it a grain of sand,
but it calls itself neither grain nor sand
it does just fine without a name
whether general, particular,
permanent, passing,
incorrect, or apt.

our glance, our touch means nothing to it
it doesn't feel itself seen and touched
and that it fell on the windowsill
is only our experience, not its
for it, it is not different from falling on anything else
with no assurance that it has finished falling
or that it is falling still

the window has a wonderful view of a lake,
but the view doesn't view itself
it exists in this world
colorless, shapeless,
soundless, odorless, and painless.

the lake's floor exists floorlessly,
and its shore exists shorelessly
the water feels itself neither wet nor dry
and its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural
they splash deaf to their own noise
on pebbles neither large nor small

and all this beneath a sky by nature skyless
in which the sun sets without setting at all
and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud
the wind ruffles it, its only reason being that it blows

a second passes
a second second
a third
but they're only seconds for us.

time has passed liek courier with urgent news
but that's just our simile
the character is inverted, his hastes make believe,
his news in human