OLD MASTER'S PAINTING

wislawa szymborska
translated by m. cygalski

in an old master's painting
trees have roots under the paints surface,
and no doubt, the path leads someplace.
with composure, a leaf takes place of a signature,
at a credible five o'clock in the afternoon,
in May gently yet unquestionably stopped,
and so I stopped as well—my dear,
the virgin under the ash tree—it's me.

have a look: how distant i've grown from you,
wearing that white cap and yellow dress,
clutching at the basket, how tightly, so as
not to fall out of the picture,
strutting in another one's fate
taking rest from living secrets.
if you called me i wouldn't hear you,
and if i did, i wouldn't turn,
and even if i made that impossible move,
your face would seem strange.

i know the world in six-mile radius.
know herbs and spells for all pains.
i'm not yet ready to give in and
i still pray for a distant death.

war is a punishment; peace a prize.
shameful dreams come from satan.
i have a soul, as certainly as a plum hasits stone.

i'm not familiar with the game of hearts
nor do i know the father of my children naked.
i would never suspect that songs of songs
betray scribbly notebooks.
what i wish to say is in ready sentences.
i don't use despair, it's not mine,
it was only entrusted to me temporarily.

if you barred my way
and looked into my eyes -
i would pass you by the edge
of the abyss even hair-thin.

on the right is my house; i know it inside out
including the stairs and the entrance,
which leads inside,
where untold stories take place:
the cat jumps up onto the coffee table,
sunlight falls on the tin jug,
at the kitchen table, sits a bony man
and repairs a clock.