We call it a grain of sand
but it calls itself neither grain nor sand.
It does just fine without a name,
whether general, particular,
incorrect or apt.
Our glance, our touch mean nothing to it.It doesn't feel itself seen and touched.And that it fell on the windowsillis only our experience, not its.For it it's no different than falling on anything elsewith no assurance that it's finished fallingor that it's falling still.The window has a wonderful view of a lakebut the view doesn't view itself.It exists in this worldcolorless, shapeless,soundless, odorless, and painless.The lake's floor exists floorlesslyand its shore exists shorelessly.Its water feels itself neither wet nor dryand its waves to themselves are neither singular nor plural,They splash deaf to their own noiseon pebbles neither large nor small.And all this beneath a sky by nature skylessin which the sun sets without setting at alland hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.The wind ruffles it, its only reason beingthat it blows.A second passesA second second.A third.But they're three seconds only for us.Time has passed like a courier with urgent news.But that's just our simile.The character's invented, his haste is make-believe,his news inhuman.
Stanislaw Baraniczak and Clara Cavanagh translation