Vocabulary by Wislawa Szymborska

“La Pologne? La Pologne? It’s really cold over there, isn’t it?”—she asked me with a sigh of relief. Because with so many countries these days, the safest thing to talk about is weather.
“Dear Lady,”—I want to reply—“Poets in my country write in gloves. I don’t claim they never take them off, especially if warmed up by the moon. In verses composed of loud cries, which alone can be heard over the din of windstorms, they sing of the simple life of shepherds of seals. Classical poets scratch pressed down snowdrifts with icicles of ink. The decadent rest of them spill tears over the fate of snowflakes. And if you want to drown, you need an ax to make an icehole. Oh lady, oh my dear lady…”
That’s what I want to reply. But I forgot how to say “seal” in French. Neither am I sure of “icicle” or “icehole”.
“La Pologne? La Pologne? It’s really cold over there, isn’t it?”
“Pas du tout”, I answer icily.

(translated by JotBe)