Silk of a Soul by Zbignew Herbert

Never
did I speak – with her

either about love
or about death

only blind taste
and mute touch
used to run between us
when absorbed in ourselves
we lay close

I must
peek inside her
to see what she wears
at her centre

when she slept
with her lips open
I peeked

and what
and what
would you think
I caught sight of

I was expecting
branches
I was expecting
a bird
I was expecting
a house
by a lake great and silent

but there
on a glass counter
I caught sight of a pair
of silk stockings
my God
I’ll buy her those stockings
I’ll buy them

but – what will appear then
on the glass counter
of the little soul
will it be something
which cannot be touched
even with one finger of a dream