Thursday Poem

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.
.
.

by Wislawa Szymborska
from Monologue of a Dog: New Poems
translated by C. Cavanagh and S. Baranczak