Woods disguised as woods alive without end, and above them birds in flight play birds in flight.
Wisława SzymborskaThe buzzard has nothing to fault himself with.
Scruples are alien to the black panther.
Piranhas do not doubt the rightness of their actions.
The rattlesnake approves of himself without reservations.
The self-critical jackal does not exist.
The locust, alligator, trichina, horsefly
live as they live and are glad of it.
The killer whale's heart weighs one hundred kilos
but in other respects it is light.
There is nothing more animal-like
than a clear conscience
on the third planet of the Sun.
Stichwörter: life experience morality humanity self-deprecation
The world, whatever we might think about it terrified by its vastness and by our helplessness in the face of it, embittered by its indifference to individual suffering—of people, animals, and perhaps also plants, for how can we be sure that plants are free of suffering; whatever we might think about its spaces pierced by the radiation of stars, stars around which we now have begun to discover planets, already dead? still dead?—we don’t know; whatever we might think about this immense theater, to which we may have a ticket, but it is valid for a ridiculously brief time, limited by two decisive dates; whatever else we might think about this world—it is amazing.
Wisława SzymborskaStichwörter: life wonder universe
Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know."...That is why I value that little phrase "I don't know" so highly. It's small, but it flies on mighty wings. It expands our lives to include spaces within us as well as the outer expanses in which our tiny Earth hangs suspended...Poets, if they're genuine, must always keep repeating "I don't know.
Wisława SzymborskaNingún día se repite,
ni dos noches son iguales,
ni dos besos parecidos
ni dos citas similares.
شكراً لك يا قلبي/ لأنني استيقظتُ من جديد/ ولو أنّ اليوم هو الأحد/ يوم الراحة/ إلا أن تحت الضلوع/ تتواصل الحركة المعتادة لما قبل العيد
Wisława Szymborskain painted quiet and concentration
Wisława SzymborskaEven if you bar my way,
even if you stare me in the face,
I'll pass you by on the chasm's edge, finer than a hair.
Musi być do wyboru,
Zmieniać się, żeby tylko nic się nie zmieniło.
To łatwe, niemożliwe, trudne, warte próby.
Oczy ma, jeśli trzeba, raz modre, raz szare,
Czarne, wesołe, bez powodu pełne łez
Śpi z nim jak pierwsza z brzegu, jedyna na świecie.
Urodzi mu czworo dzieci, żadnych dzieci, jedno.
Naiwna, ale najlepiej doradzi.
Słaba, ale udźwignie.
Nie ma głowy na karku, to będzie ją miała.
Czyta Jaspersa i pisma kobiece.
Nie wie po co ta śrubka i zbuduje most.
Młoda, jak zwykle młoda, ciągle jeszcze młoda.
Trzyma w rękach wróbelka ze złamanym skrzydłem,
własne pieniądze na podróż daleką i długą,
tasak do mięsa, kompres i kieliszek czystej.
Dokąd tak biegnie, czy nie jest zmęczona.
Ależ nie, tylko trochę, bardzo, nic nie szkodzi.
Albo go kocha albo się uparła.
Na dobre, na niedobre i na litość boską.
My apologies to past loves for treating the latest as the first.
Wisława SzymborskaStichwörter: love
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