A new star has been discovered,
which doesn’t mean it’s gotten any brighter
or something missing has been gained.
The star is large and distant,
so distant, that it’s small,
even smaller than others
a lot smaller than itself.
Surprise would be nothing surprising
if we only had time for it.
Star’s age, star’s mass, star’s position,
all of that may be enough
for one doctoral thesis
and a modest glass of wine
in the circles close to the sky:
an astronomer, his wife, relatives, and colleagues,
a casual ambience, no dress code,
local topics fuel a down-to-earth conversation
and people are munching on terra chips.
A wonderful star,
but that’s still no reason
not to drink to the ladies,
Star without consequences.
Without influence on weather, fashion, the score of the game,
changes in government, income, or the crisis of values.
Why need we ask
under how many stars someone is born
and under how many stars they die a little while later?
A new one.
“At least show me where it is.”
“Between the edge of that jagged grayish cloud
and the twig of that locust tree on the left.”
“Oh,” I say.
Szymborska, Wislawa. Miracle Fair. Trans. Joanna Trzeciak. New York: Norton, 2002. pp 89-90..