May 16, 1973
Wislawa Szymborska
One of those many dates
which no longer say anything to me.

Where I went that day,
what I did--I don't know.

If a crime was committed nearby
--I'd have no alibi.

The sun shone and set
without my noticing.
The earth rotated
without mention in my notebook.

It would be easier for me to think
that I died for a while
than to admit that I remember nothing,
although I was alive the whole time.

After all I was not a ghost,
I breathed and ate,
took steps
which were audible,
and left fingerprints
on the doorknobs.
I was reflected in the mirror.
I wore something of a certain color.
I'm sure several people saw me.
Perhaps on that day I found something I had lost earlier,
or lost something which was later found.

Feelings and impressions filled me.
Now all that
is like dots inside parentheses.

Where I hid,
where I hung out --
it's not a bad trick
to vanish from my own sight.

I'll jog my memory --
maybe something in its recesses
which has been dormant for years
will awaken with a start.

No.
I am most clearly demanding too much,
though but a second of time.


-translated by Walter Whipple