Reality: Really Real?

Are you reading this poem? Who is this you? Do you see yourself asking who is this reading? Who witnesses you asking this of your self?


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,
permanent, passing, incorrect, or apt.

Our glance, our touch mean nothing to it.
It doesn't feel itself seen or touched.
And that it fell on the windowsill,
is only our experience, not its.
For it, it is no different from falling on anything else
with no assurance that it has finished falling
or that it is falling still.

The window has a wonderful view of the lake,
but the view doesn't view itself.
It exists in this world
colorless, shapeless,
soundless, odorless, and painless.

The lake's floor exists floorlessly,
and its shore exists shorelessly.
Its water feels itself neither wet nor dry
and its waves to themselves are neither singular or plural.
They splash deaf to their own noise
on pebbles neither large nor small.

And all this beneath a sky by nature skyless
in which the sun sets without setting at all
and hides without hiding behind an unminding cloud.
The wind ruffles it, its only reason being
that it blows.

A second passes.
A second second passes.
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 is invented, his haste is make- believe,
his news inhuman.

View With A Grain Of Sand
By Wislawa Syzmborska