Theyâre both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
Such certainty is beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.
Since theyâd never met before, theyâre sure
that thereâd been nothing between them.
But whatâs the word from the streets, staircases, hallwaysâ
perhaps theyâve passed by each other a million times?
I want to ask them
if they donât rememberâ
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a âsorryâ muttered in a crowd?
a curt âwrong numberâ caught in the receiver?â
but I know the answer.
No, they donât remember.
Theyâd be amazed to hear
that Chance has been toying with them
now for years.
Not quite ready yet
to become their Destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.
There were signs and signals,
even if they couldnât read them yet.
Perhaps three years ago
or just last Tuesday
a certain leaf fluttered
from one shoulder to another?
Something was dropped and then picked up.
Who knows, maybe the ball that vanished
into childhoodâs thicket?
There were doorknobs and doorbells
where one touch had covered another
beforehand.
Suitcases checked and standing side by side.
One night, perhaps, the same dream,
grown hazy by morning.
Every beginning
is only a sequel, after all,
and the book of events
is always open halfway through.
Wislawa Szymborska (1993)
(Translated by StanisĹaw BaraĹczak and Clare Cavanagh)
Maria WisĹawa Anna Szymborska (1923 â2012) was a Polish poet, essayist and translator who gained international renown after winning the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1996.
               đAmore a prima vistađ
Sono entrambi convinti
che un sentimento improvviso li unĂŹ.
Eâ bella una tale certezza
ma lâincertezza è piĂš bella.
Non conoscendosi prima, credono
che non sia mai successo nulla fra loro.
Ma che ne pensano le strade, le scale, i corridoi
dove da tempo potevano incrociarsi?
Vorrei chiedere loro
se non ricordano â
una volta un faccia a faccia
forse in una porta girevole?
uno âscusiâ nella ressa?
un âha sbagliato numeroâ nella cornetta?
â ma conosco la risposta.
No, non ricordano.
Li stupirebbe molto sapere
che giĂ da parecchio
il caso stava giocando con loro.
Non ancora del tutto pronto
a mutarsi per loro in destino,
li avvicinava, li allontanava,
gli tagliava la strada
e soffocando un risolino
si scansava con un salto.
Vi furono segni, segnali,
che importa se indecifrabili.
Forse tre anni fa
o il martedĂŹ scorso
una fogliolina volò via
da una spalla allâaltra?
Qualcosa fu perduto e qualcosa raccolto.
ChissĂ , era forse la palla
tra i cespugli dellâinfanzia?
Vi furono maniglie e campanelli
in cui anzitempo
un tocco si posava sopra un tocco.
Valigie accostate nel deposito bagagli.
Una notte, forse, lo stesso sogno,
subito confuso al risveglio.
Ogni inizio infatti
è solo un seguito
e il libro degli eventi
è sempre aperto a metà .
(Traduzione di Pietro Marchesani)
Luisa, The poem you have chosen for us is just wonderful.
I have often wondered along the lines of Wislawa. Now wonder she won the Nobel price.
Thank you for sharing.
Miriam
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Thank you so much.
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Thank you for your kind words, dear Miriamđ
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lode degli amori in tarda etĂ
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Bellissima đ
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Sono completamente d’accordo con te đź
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â¤ď¸
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Wow, amazing poem! â¤ď¸
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Beautiful, isn’t it? đľ
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Tremendous poem A choice of height.
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