A LIFE

I was a quiet boy a little sleepy and amazingly—

like my peers—who were fond of adventures—

I didn't expect much—didn't look out the window 

At school more diligent than able—docile stable

Then a normal life at the level of a regular clerk

early street tram office again tram home sleep

I truly don't know why I'm tired uneasy in torment  

perpetually even now—when I have a right to rest

I know I never rose high—I have no achievements

I collected stamps medicinal herbs was O.K. at chess

I went abroad once—on a holiday to the Black Sea

in the photo a straw hat tanned face—almost happy

I read what came to hand: about scientific socialism

about flights into space and machines that can think

and the thing I liked most: books on the life of bees

Like others I wanted to know what I'd be after death

whether I'd get a new apartment if life had meaning

And above all how to tell the good from what's evil

to know for sure what is white and what's all black

Someone recommended a classic work--as he said 

it changed his life and the lives of millions of others

I read it—I didn't change—and I'm ashamed to admit

for the life of me I don't remember the classic's name

Maybe I didn't live but endured—cast against my will

into something hard to govern and impossible to grasp

a shadow on a wall

so it was not a life 

a life up to the hilt

How could I explain to my wife or to anyone else

that I summoned all my strength

so as not to commit stupidities cede to insinuation

not to fraternize with the strongest

It's true—I was always pale. Average. At school

in the Army in the office at home and at parties

Now I'm in the hospital dying of old age.

Here is the same uneasiness and torment.

Born a second time perhaps I'd be better.

I wake at night in a sweat. Stare at the ceiling. Silence.

And again—one more time—with bone-weary arm

I chase off the bad spirits and summon the good ones.

-Zbigniew Herbert 

(Translasted from Polish, by Alissa Valles.)

Jan. 22, 2007 The New Yorker