Su: "Museum": Museum Here are plates but no appetite. And wedding rings, but the requited love has been gone now for some three hundred years. Here’s a fan—where is the maiden’s blush? Here are swords—where is the ire? Nor will the lute sound at the twilight hour. Since eternity was out of stock, ten thousand aging things have been amassed instead. The moss-grown guard in golden slumber props his moustache on the Exhibit Number . . . Eight. Metals, clay, and feathers celebrate their silent triumphs over dates. Only some Egyptian flapper’s silly hairpin giggles. The crown has outlasted the head. The hand has lost out to the glove. The right shoe has defeated the foot. As for me, I am still alive, you see. The battle with my dress still rages on. It struggles, foolish thing, so stubbornly! Determined to keep living when I’m gone!

Here are plates but no appetite. And wedding rings, but the requited love has been gone now for some three hundred years. Here’s a fan—where is the maiden’s blush? Here are swords—where is the ire? Nor will the lute sound at the twilight hour. Since eternity was out of stock, ten thousand aging things have been amassed instead. The moss-grown guard in golden slumber props his moustache on the Exhibit Number . . . Eight. Metals, clay, and feathers celebrate their silent triumphs over dates. Only some Egyptian flapper’s silly hairpin giggles. The crown has outlasted the head. The hand has lost out to the glove. The right shoe has defeated the foot. As for me, I am still alive, you see. The battle with my dress still rages on. It struggles, foolish thing, so stubbornly! Determined to keep living when I’m gone!

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Poems New and Collected Wislawa Szymborska

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