To My Heart on Sunday
Thank you, my heart:
you don’t dawdle, you keep going
with no flattery or reward,
just from inborn diligence.
You get seventy credits a minute.
Each of your systoles
shoves a little boat
to open sea
to sail around the world.
Thank you, my heart:
time after time
you pluck me, separate even in sleep,
out of the whole.
You make sure I don’t dream my dreams
up to the final flight,
no wings required.
Thank you, my heart:
I woke up again
and even though it’s Sunday,
the day of rest,
the usual preholiday rush
continues underneath my ribs.
by Wstlawa Szymborska
from Poems new and Collected
translation:Stanislaw Baranczak
Harcourt, Inc. 1996