I can't speak for elsewhere,
but here on Earth there’s a fair supply of everything.
Here we manufacture chairs and sorrows,
scissors, tenderness, transistors and violins,
teacups, dams and quips.
There may be more of everything elsewhere,
but for reasons left unspecified they lack paintings,
picture tubes, pirogies, handkerchiefs for tears.
Here we have countless places with vicinities.
You may take a liking to some,
give them pet names,
protect them from harm.
There may be comparable places elsewhere,
but no one thinks them beautiful.
Like nowhere else, or almost nowhere,
you're given your own torso here.
equipped with all the accessories required
for adding your own children to the rest.
Not to mention arms, legs and astounded head.
Ignorance works overtime here,
something is always being counted, compared, measured,
from which roots and conclusions are then drawn.
I know, I know what you’re thinking.
Nothing here can last,
since from and to time immemorial the elements hold sway.
But see, even the elements grow weary
and sometimes take extended breaks
before starting up again.
And I know what you're thinking next.
Wars, wars, wars.
But there are pauses in between them too.
Attention—people are evil.
At ease—people are good.
At attention wastelands are created.
At ease houses are constructed in the sweat of our brows
and are quickly inhabited.
Life on earth is quite a bargain.
Dreams, for one, don't charge admission.
Illusions are costly only when lost.
The body has its own installment plan.
And as an extra, added feature,
you spin on the planets' carrousel for free,
and with it, you hitch a ride on the intergalactic blizzard,
with times so dizzying
that nothing here on earth can even tremble.
Just take a closer look:
the table stands exactly where it stood,
the piece of paper still lies where it was spread,
through the open window comes just a breath of air,
the walls reveal no terrifying cracks
through which nowhere might extinguish you.
Here by Wislawa Szymborska