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A soul is something we have every now and then. |
Nobody has one all the time |
or forever. |
Day after day, |
year after year, |
can go by without one. |
Only sometimes in rapture |
or in the fears of childhood |
it nests a little longer. |
Only sometimes in the wonderment |
that we are old. |
It rarely assists us |
during tiresome tasks, |
such as moving furniture, |
carrying suitcases, |
or traveling on foot in shoes too tight. |
When we're filling out questionnaires |
or chopping meat |
it's usually given time off. |
Out of our thousand conversations |
it participates in one, |
and even that isn't a given, |
for it prefers silence. |
When the body starts to ache and ache |
it quietly steals from its post. |
It's choosy: |
not happy to see us in crowds, |
sickened by our struggle for any old advantage |
and the drone of business dealings. |
It doesn't see joy and sorrow |
as two different feelings. |
It is with us |
only in their union. |
We can count on it |
when we're not sure of anything |
and curious about everything. |
Of all material objects |
it likes grandfather clocks |
and mirrors, which work diligently |
even when no one is looking. |
It doesn't state where it comes from |
or when it will vanish again, |
but clearly it awaits such questions. |
Evidently, |
just as we need it, |
it can also use us |
for something. |
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