And then I remember waking up again, and thinking, oh, again, and then I drank something and did some things and then ate something again, and then here I was and am now. Any of this might easily have been predicted, as it is not so different from anything else that has ever happened, but predicting is always accompanied by that possibility that this will be the time something else happens, that will not have been predicted, as this too is something that always happens eventually and thus might also have been predicted, though not quite so easily.
Anyway, something else hasn't happened, and here it is getting on in the morning and It's been getting bright earlier and earlier, and soon I'll have actual daylight to contend with, and I'm not feeling contentious. And I've already got something else to contend with, which is dishes I haven't washed, so contentious or not I must be a contender. This, too, is one of those recurrent things could have been easily predicted. Maybe it was predicted, and I just wasn't paying attention. That doesn't bode well for my ultimate salvation, does it?
But I think I'll just go eat a cookie and then wash dishes. But first this, before I forget.
by Wisława Szymborska
that we also mention this:
Life goes on.
It continues at Cannae and Borodino,
at Kosovo Polje and Guernica.
There's a gas station
on a little square in Jericho,
and wet paint
on park benches in Bila Hora.
Letters fly back and forth
between Pearl Harbor and Hastings,
a moving van passes
beneath the eye of the lion at Chaeronea,
and the blooming orchards near Verdun
the approaching atmospheric front.
There is so much Everything
that Nothing is hidden quite nicely.
from the yachts moored at Actium
and couples dance on the sunlit decks.
So much is always going on,
that it must be going on all over.
Where not a stone still stands,
you see the Ice Cream Man
besieged by children.
Where Hiroshima had been
Hiroshima is again,
producing many products
for everyday use.
This terrifying world is not devoid of charms,
of the mornings
that make waking up worthwhile.
The grass is green
on Maciejowice's fields,
and it is studded with dew,
as is normal grass.
Perhaps all fields are battlefields,
those we remember
and those that are forgotten:
the birch forests and the cedar forests,
the snow and the sand, the iridescent swamps
and the canyons of black defeat,
where now, when the need strikes, you don't cower
under a bush but squat behind it.
What moral flows from this? Probably none.
Only that blood flows, drying quickly,
and, as always, a few rivers, a few clouds.
On tragic mountain passes
the wind rips hats from unwitting heads
and we can't help
laughing at that.