Wisława Szymborska Quotes

Psalm

How leaky are the borders of man-made states!
How many clouds float over them scot-free,
how much desert sand sifts from country to country,
how many mountain pebbles roll onto foreign turf
in provocative leaps!

Need I cite each and every bird as it flies,
or alights, as now, on the lowered gate?
Even if be a sparrow — its tail is abroad,
Though its beak is still home. As if that weren’t enough — it keeps fidgeting!

Out of countless insects I will single out the ant,
who, between the guard’s left and right boots,
feels unobliged to answer questions of origin and destination.

If only this whole mess could be seen at once in detail
on every continent!
Isn’t that a privet on the opposite bank
smuggling its hundred-thousandth leaf across the river?
Who else but the squid, brazenly long-armed,
would violate the sacred territorial waters.?

How can we speak of any semblance of order
when we can’t rearrange the stars
to know which one shines for whom?

Not to mention the reprehensible spreading of fog!
Or the dusting of the steppe over its entire range
as though it weren’t split in two!
Or voices carried over accommodating air waves:
summoning squeals and suggestive gurgles!

Only what’s human can be truly alien.
The rest is mixed forest, undermining moles, and wind.

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.

How light the raindrop's contents are;
how gently the world touches me.

From View With a Grain of Sand

SENKA

Moja senka kao dvorska luda za kraljicom.
Kad kraljica sa stolice ustane,
luda se na zidu nakostreši
i u plafon glupom glavom udari.

Što može u dvodimenzionalnom svetu
na svoj način boli.
Možda je ludi na mom dvoru loše
i sebe bi u drugoj ulozi volela.

Kraljica će se kroz prozor nagnuti,
a luda s prozora dole skočiti.
Svaku aktivnost su podelile,
ali ne na pola.

Onaj prostak na sebe uzeo gestove,
patos i svu njegovu bestidnost,
to je sve, za šta snage nemam– za krunu, žezlo, kraljevski plašt.

Biću, ah, laka u pokretima ramena,
ah, laka u okretanju glave,
kralju, pri našem oproštaju,
kralju, na železničkoj stanici.

Kralju, u to vreme luda će,
kralju, leći na železničke šine.

Toy balloon once kidnapped by the wind — come home, and I will say: There are no children here.

For the sake of research, the big picture and definitive conclusions, one would have to transcend time, in which everything scurries and whirls.

Why there's still all this space inside me
I don't know.

Cierta gente huyendo de otra gente.
En cierto país bajo el sol
y bajo ciertas nubes.

No one feels good at four in the morning.
If ants feel good at four in the morning — three cheers for the ants.

He has only just learned to tell dreams from waking; only just realized that he is he; only just whittled with his hand né fin a flint, a rocket ship; easily drowned in the ocean's teaspoon, not even funny enough to tickle the void: sees only with his eyes; hears only with his ears; his speech's personal best is the conditional; he uses his reason to pick holes in reason. In short, he's next to to one, but his head's full of freedom, omniscience and the Being beyond his foolish meat — did you ever!

Buscar sinceridad en unas memorias carece de sentido. Mejor sería preguntarse qué versión de uno mismo y del mundo ha escogido el autor, dado que siempre hay posibilidad de elegir.

But in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it.

هردو بر اين باورند
كه حسي ناگهاني آنها را به هم پيوند داده.
چنين اطميناني زيباست،
اما ترديد زيبا تر است.

چون قبلا همديگر را نمي شناختند،
گمان مي بردند هرگز چيزي ميان آنها نبوده.
اما نظر خيابان ها، پله ها و راهروهايي

كه آن دو مي توانسته اند از سال ها پيش
از كنار هم گذشته باشند، در اين باره چيست؟

دوست داشتم از آنها بپرسم

آيا به ياد نمي آورند
شايد درون دري چرخان
زماني روبروي هم؟
يك ببخشيد در ازدحام مردم؟
يك صداي اشتباه گرفته ايد در گوشي تلفن؟

- ولي پاسخشان را مي دانم.
- نه، چيزي به ياد نمي آورند.

بسيار شگفت زده مي شدند
اگر مي دانستند، كه ديگر مدت هاست
بازيچه اي در دست اتفاق بوده اند.

هنوز كاملا آماده نشده
كه براي آنها تبديل به سرنوشتي شود،
آنها را به هم نزديك مي كرد دور مي كرد،

جلو راهشان را مي گرفت
و خنده ي شيطانيش را فرو مي خورد و
كنار مي جهيد.

علائم و نشانه هايي بوده
هر چند ناخوانا.
شايد سه سال پيش
يا سه شنبه ي گذشته
برگ درختي از شانه ي يكيشان
به شانه ي ديگري پرواز كرده؟

چيزي بوده كه يكي آن را گم كرده
ديگري آن را يافته و برداشته.

از كجا معلوم توپي در بوته هاي كودكي نبوده باشد؟
دستگيره ها و زنگ درهايي بوده
كه يكيشان لمس كرده و در فاصله اي كوتاه آن ديگري.
چمدان هايي كنار هم در انبار.
شايد يك شب هر دو يك خواب را ديده باشند،
كه بلافاصله بعد از بيدار شدن محو شده.

بالاخره هر آغازي
فقط ادامه ايست
و كتاب حوادث
هميشه از نيمه ي آن باز مي شود.

Some People

Some people flee some other people.
In some country under a sun
and some clouds.

They abandon something close to all they’ve got,
sown fields, some chickens, dogs,
mirrors in which fire now preens.

Their shoulders bear pitchers and bundles.
The emptier they get, the heavier they grow.

What happens quietly: someone’s dropping from exhaustion.
What happens loudly: someone’s bread is ripped away,
someone tries to shake a limp child back to life.

Always another wrong road ahead of them,
always another wrong bridge
across an oddly reddish river.
Around them, some gunshots, now nearer, now farther away,
above them a plane seems to circle.

Some invisibility would come in handy,
some grayish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or a longer while.

Something else will happen, only where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when and who,
in how many shapes, with what intentions.
If he has a choice,
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will leave them to some sort of life.

I am too close for him to dream of me. I don't flutter over him, don't flee him beneath the roots of trees. I am too close. The caught fish doesn't sing with my voice. The ring doesn't roll from my finger. I am too close.