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Wisława Szymborska

A Note

Life is the only way
to get covered in leaves,
catch your breath on the sand,
rise on wings;

to be a dog,
or stroke its warm fur;

to tell pain
from everything it’s not;

to squeeze inside events,
dawdle in views,
to seek the least of all possible mistakes.

An extraordinary chance
to remember for a moment
a conversation held
with the lamp switched off;

and if only once
to stumble upon a stone,
end up soaked in one downpour or another,

mislay your keys in the grass;
and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes;
and to keep on not knowing
something important.

— Wisława Szymborska, Map: Collected and Last Poems. Trans. Clare Cavanagh and Stanisław Barańczak. (Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; 1St Edition edition April 7, 2015)  

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