Seeing the back of Covid
Summer is here again. The days are longer, and sometimes heavier.
Bob Dylan is whispering in my ears for years. I cannot say I fully understand the meaning of all his verses, but I fully understand the magic in his poetry. Thank you Bob.
We’re in a Lul, calming ourselves down from yet another round in this endless conflict. Let’s hope it’ll last.
Some fishermen pulled a bottle from the deep. It held a piece of paper,
with these words: “Somebody save me! I’m here. The ocean cast me on this desert island.
I am standing on the shore waiting for help. Hurry! I’m here!”
“There’s no date. I bet it’s already too late anyway.
It could have been floating for years,” the first fisherman said.
“And he doesn’t say where. It’s not even clear which ocean,” the second fisherman said.
“It’s not too late, or too far. The island Here is everywhere,” the third fisherman said.
They all felt awkward. No one spoke. That’s how it goes with universal truths.
~ Wislawa Szymborska ~
(Poems New and Collected 1957-1997, trans. S. Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)