CarrollBlog 4.2

THE REAL WORLD

by Wisława Szymborska

The real world doesn't take flight

the way dreams do.

No muffled voice, no doorbell

can dispel it,

no shriek, no crash

can cut it short.

Images in dreams

are hazy and ambiguous,

and can generally be explained

in many different ways.

Reality means reality:

that's a tougher nut to crack.

Dreams have keys.

The real world opens on its own

and can't be shut.

Report cards and stars

pour from it,

butterflies and flatiron warmers

shower down,

headless caps

and shards of clouds.

Together they form a rebus

that can't be solved.

Without us dreams couldn't exist.

The one on whom the real world depends

is still unknown,

and the products of his insomnia

are available to anyone

who wakes up.

Dreams aren't crazy—

it's the real world that's insane,

if only in the stubbornness

with which it sticks

to the current of events.

It dreams our recently deceased

are still alive,

in perfect health, no less,

and restored to the full bloom of youth.

The real world lays the corpse

in front of us.

The real world doesn't blink an eye.

Dreams are featherweights,

and memory can shake them off with ease.

The real world doesn't have to fear forgetfulness.

It's a tough customer.

It sits on our shoulders,

weighs on our hearts,

tumbles to our feet.

There's no escaping it,

it tags along each time we flee.

And there's no stop

along our escape route

where reality isn't expecting us.