I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
— Wislawa Szymborska

Four days ago,
we were amidst high mountains.
We walked
those steep alpine slopes.
We walked above
the treeline.
I was yours
and you were mine.

Three mornings ago,
we woke up above an idyllic vale.
We woke up to the sight
of mist descending
onto that forest—
upright trees
on slanting grounds.
You said: This is larch, that fir.
I looked at your face and smiled.
We descended, like mist,
towards the valley.
There, we had two cups of coffee
each.

Two evenings ago,
we found ourselves
on a hillslope with wildflowers.
You said: This is rhododendron, that daisy.
I was happy and lazy.
You said: Right there! Here,
these are wild strawberries.
I tasted the berry and thought,
perhaps,
this is the moment—
this is joy.
I remember,
you had once told me:
The moment is all we have.

Today,
we sit on a park bench.
The sun is rising.
It slowly saturates
the scenery with color.
This majestic lake shimmers.
Ducks quack.

And the two of us,
in love,
stare at this absurd beauty!