I'm still asleep,
but meanwhile facts are taking place.
The window grows white,
darknesses turn gray,
the room works its way from hazy space,
pale, shaky stripes seek its support.
But turns, unhurried,
since this is a ceremony,
the planes of walls and ceiling dawn,
shapes separate,
one from the other,
left to right.
The distances between objects irradiate,
the first glints twitter
on the tumbler, the doorknob.
Whatever had been displaced yesterday,
had fallen to the floor,
been contained in picture frames,
is no longer simply happening, but is.
Only the details
have not yet entered the field of vision.
But look out, look out, look out,
all indicators point to returning colours
and even the smallest thing regains its own hue
along with a hint of shadow.
This rarely astounds me, but it should.
I usually wake up in the role of belated witness,
with the miracle already achieved,
the day defined
and dawning masterfully recast as morning.
~Wisława Szymborska~
from "Monologue of A Dog" translated by Clare Cavanagh & Stanisław Barańczak
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