To My Heart, on Sunday by Wisława Szymborska

To My Heart, on Sunday

Thank you, my heart:

you don’t dawdle, you keep going

with no flattery or reward,

just from inborn diligence.

You get seventy credits a minute.

Each of your systoles

shoves a little boat

to open sea

to sail around the world.

Thank you, my heart:

time after time

you pluck me, separate even in sleep,

out of the whole.

You make sure I don’t dream my dreams

up to that final flight,

no wings required.

Thank you, my heart:

I woke up again

and even though it’s Sunday,

the day of rest,

the usual preholiday rush

continues underneath my ribs.

(Translated by Stanislaw Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh)