#galczynski

WHY DOES THE PICKLE NEVER SING

The question that our title has cast in deathless bronze is painful yet so vital, we owe it a response.

If our little green friend won't sing, croon, lilt or chant, it's clear that, Heaven forfend, it most probably can't.

But what if evil stars trample its throat? If divine airs die in air-tight jars, engulfed by teary brine?

Meanwhile, time flies, alas first sunshine, then rains trickle, and still we callously pass by many a pained pickle.

1953

[Translated by S. Barańczak and C. Cavanagh]

🥒 🥒 🥒 🥒 🥒 🥒 🥒 🥒

If even by the spring you will be alone, when to the swallow you will be in vain explaining what bothers you, when the hardest hour indicates the clock, trace me – and you'll find me on the shelf.

I am not enormous object, but it's hard to pass me by to whom the worry happens to be the house mistress; so sit in the best chair in your flat and bend down over me, and let the eyes flow.

Then I'll spout all the rays in the eyes and I'll be your mother and consolation, and with letters you'll chat like with the stars, that I'm as small as the heart and as big as the heart.