A Few Words on the Soul

by Wislawa Szymborska

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We have a soul at times.

No one’s got it non-stop,

for keeps.

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Day after day,

year after year

may pass without it.

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Sometimes

it will settle for awhile

only in childhood’s fears and raptures.

Sometimes only in astonishment

that we are old.

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It rarely lends a hand

in uphill tasks,

like moving furniture,

or lifting luggage,

or going miles in shoes that pinch.

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It usually steps out

whenever meat needs chopping

or forms have to be filled.

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For every thousand conversations

it participates in one,

if even that,

since it prefers silence.

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Just when our body goes from ache to pain,

it slips off-duty.

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It’s picky:

it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,

our hustling for a dubious advantage

and creaky machinations make it sick.

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Joy and sorrow

aren’t two different feelings for it.

It attends us

only when the two are joined.

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We can count on it

when we’re sure of nothing

and curious about everything.

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Among the material objects

it favors clocks with pendulums

and mirrors, which keep on working

even when no one is looking.

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It won’t say where it comes from

or when it’s taking off again,

though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

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We need it

but apparently

it needs us

for some reason too.

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via arghfuckkill and wood_s_lot