I
owe so much
to
those I don't love.
The
relief as I agree
that
someone else needs them more.
The
happiness that I'm not
the
wolf to their sheep.
The
peace I feel with them,
the
freedom –
love
can neither give
nor
take that.
I
don't wait for them,
as
in window-to-door-and-back.
Almost
as patient
as
a sundial,
I
understand
what
love can't,
and
forgive
as
love never would.
From
a rendezvous to a letter
is
just a few days or weeks,
not
an eternity.
Trips
with them always go smoothly,
concerts
are heard,
cathedrals
visited,
scenery
is seen.
And
when seven hills and rivers
come
between us,
the
hills and rivers
can
be found on any map.
They
deserve the credit
if
I live in three dimensions,
in
nonlyrical and nonrhetorical space
with
a genuine, shifting horizon.
They
themselves don't realize
how
much they hold in their empty hands.
"I
don't owe them a thing,"
would
be love's answer
to
this open question.
Wisława
Szymborska
Translated
by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh
