THE JOY OF WRITING

wislawa szymborska
translated by m. cygalski

where is this written doe running.
through a written forest
to drink some written water
which will reflect her muzzle like a carbon copy
why is it looking up
does it lift its head —does it suddenly hear something—
suspended on borrowed from truth four legs
from under my pen —it pricks up its ears
silence-the word also rustles on paper
and wakens —caused by the word 'forest'—branches
over a white page, getting ready to leap,
are letters that might not come out right
—might come out all wrong
poaching sentences
from which there's no escape
a drop of ink abounds in hunters with squinting eyes
ready to charge down the steep pen
to surround the animal
and to ready themselves to fire

they forget that here is not life
different —black and white —laws govern this place
blink of an eye may last as long as i wish
divided if i wish into small eternities
full of suspended, frozen in flight, bullets
never, if i so decide, will anything happen here
without my will even a leaf won't fall
not even a stream will give
under the dot of a hoof.

So there is such world,
over which I reign supreme?
Time I bind with chains of symbols
being by my decree eternal

The joy of writing.
The opportunity to remain.
The revenge of a mortal hand.