Life while you wait.
Performance without rehearsal.
Body without fitting.
Head without reflection.
I know nothing of the role I play.
I only know it's mine, non-convertible.
What the play is about
I must guess only after it's begun.
Poorly prepared for the dignity of life,
I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed.
I improvise, though I loathe improvisation.
At every step I stumble over my lack of expertise.
My way of life smacks of provincialism.
My instincts are those of a rank amateur.
Stage fright, although an excuse, is all the more humiliating.
Extenuating circumstances I perceive as cruel.
Not to be retracted are words and reflexes,
Unfinished is the count of the stars,
Character buttoned up on the run like an overcoat-
These are the pitiful results of such haste.
If only one Wednesday could be practiced ahead of time,
Or if one Thursday could again be repeated!
But here it is nearly Friday, with a scenario I don't know.
Is it fair- I ask
(with hoarseness in my voice,
because I wasn't even allowed to clear my throat in the wings).
Illusory is the thought that this is just a pop quiz
Taken on temporary premises. No.
I stand the scenery and see how solid it is.
I am struck by the accuracy of all the props.
The revolving stage has long been in operation.
Even the most distant nebulae have been switched on.
Ah, I have no doubt that this is opening night,
And whatever I may do
Will be forever changed into that which I have done.
By: Wislawa Szymborska
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