Wislawa Szymborska Poems

See how efficient it still is,
how it keeps itself in shape—
our century's hatred.
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Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?
For a drink of written water from a spring
whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle?
Why does she lift her head; does she hear something?
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True love. Is it normal
is it serious, is it practical?
What does the world get from two people
who exist in a world of their own?
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It could have happened.
It had to happen.
It happened earlier. Later.
Nearer. Farther off.
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To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
it's time to start this cultural affair.
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Darwin.
They say he read novels to relax,
But only certain kinds:
nothing that ended unhappily.
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So much world all at once – how it rustles and bustles!
Moraines and morays and morasses and mussels,
The flame, the flamingo, the flounder, the feather –
How to line them all up, how to put them together?
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Against a grayisch sky
a grayer cloud
rimmed black by the sun.
On the left, that is, the right,
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It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge.
It knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships, or baking cakes.
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They say
the first love is the most important.
That's very romantic
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