by Adam Zagajewski （Translated by Clare Cavanagh）

    Always caught up in what they called

    the practical side of life

    （theory was for Plato），

    up to their elbows in furniture， in bedding，

    in cupboards and kitchen gardens，

    they never neglected the lavender sachets

    that turned a linen¹ closet to a meadow.

    The practical side of life，

    like the Moon's unlighted face，

    didn't lack for mysteries；

    when Christmastime drew near，

    life became pure praxis

    and resided temporarily in hallways，

    took refuge in suitcases and satchels².

    And when somebody died it happened

    even in our family， alas³

    my aunts， preoccupied⁴

    with death's practical side，

    forgot at last about the lavender，

    whose frantic⁵ scent⁶ bloomed selflessly

    beneath a heavy snow of sheets.

    Don't just do something， sit there.

    And so I have， so I have，

    the seasons curling around me like smoke，

    Gone to the end of the earth and back without sound

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