by Wislawa Szymborska

Wislawa Szymborska

Against a grayish sky
a grayer cloud
rimmed black by the sun.

On the left, that is, the right,
a white cherry branch with black blossoms.

Light shadows on your dark face.
You’d just taken a seat at the table
and put your hands, gone pray, upon it.

You look like a ghost
who’s trying to summon up the living.

(And since I still number among them,
I should appear to him and tap:
good night, that is, good morning,
farewell, that is, hello.
And not grudge questions to any of his answers
concerning life,
that storm before the calm).

Monologue of a Dog: New Poems

Last updated December 02, 2022