We have a soul at times.

No one’s got it nonstop,

for keeps.

 

Day after day,

year after year

may pass without it.

 

Sometimes

it will settle for a while

only in childhood fears and raptures.

Sometimes only in astonishment

that we are old.

 

It rarely lends a hand

in uphill tasks,

like moving furniture, or lifting luggage,

or going miles in shoes that pinch.

 

It usually steps out

whenever meat needs chopping

or forms have to be filled.

 

For every thousand conversations

it participates in one,

if even that, 

since it prefers silence.

 

Just when our body goes from ache to pain, 

it slips off duty.

It’s picky:

it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,

or hustling for a dubious advantage

and creaky machinations make it sick.

 

Joy and sorrow

aren’t two different feelings for it.

It attends to us

only when the two are joined.

 

We can count on it

when we’re sure of nothing

and curious about everything.

 

Among the material objects

it favors clocks with pendulums

and mirrors, which keep on working

even when no one is looking.

 

It won’t say where it comes from

or when it’s taking off again,

though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

 

We need it

but apparently

it needs us

for some reason too.

 

-Wislawa Szymborska (1996 Nobel Laureate in Literature)