--Wisława Szymborska (trans.S Baranczak and C. Cavanagh)Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan.I'm drowning in debts up to my ears.I'll have to pay for myselfwith my self,give up my life for my life.Here's how it's arranged:The heart can be repossessed,the liver, too,and each single finger and toe.Too late to tear up the terms,my debts will be repaid,and I'll be fleeced,or, more precisely, flayed.I move about the planetin a crush of other debtors.some are saddled with the burdenof paying off their wings.Others must, willy-nilly,account for every leaf.Every tissue in us lieson the debit side.Not a tenacle or tendrilis for keeps.The inventory, infinitely detailed,implies we'll be leftnot just empty-handedbut handless too.I can't rememberwhere, when, and whyI let someone openthis account in my name.We call the protest against thisthe soul.And it's the only itemnot included on the list.
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