I don’t reproach the spring
for starting up again.
I can’t blame it
for doing what it must
year after year.
I know that my grief
will not stop the green.
The grass blade my bend
but only in the wind.
It doesn’t pain me to see
that clumps of alders above the water
have something to rustle with again.
I take note of the fact
that the shore of a certain lake
is still—as if you were living—
as lovely as before.
I don’t resent
the view for its vista
of a sun-dazzled bay.
I am even able to imagine
some non-us
sitting at this minute
on a fallen birch trunk.
I respect their right
to whisper, laugh,
and lapse into happy silence.
I can even allow
that they are bound by love
and that he holds her
with a living arm.
Something freshly birdish
starts rustling in the reeds.
I sincerely want them
to hear it.
I don’t require changes
from the surf,
now diligent, now sluggish,
obeying not me.
I expect nothing
from the depths near the woods,
first emerald,
then sapphire,
then black.
There’s one thing I won’t agree to:
my own return.
The privilege of presence—
I give it up.
I survived you by enough,
and only by enough,
to contemplate from afar.
……………
Wislawa Szymborska