An Attempt Wisława Szymborska

O little song, surely you're mocking me,
for even had I gone the high road,
I would not have come up roses.
Only roses come up roses and no one else. You know that.

I attempted to have leaves. I tried to turn into a bush.
With held breath—to make it happen faster—
I yearned for my enclosure in rose petals.

O little song that has no pity on me:
I have a single body, immutable;
I am an annual—to the marrow of my bone.