by Wislawa Szymborska
They both thought that a sudden feeling had united them
This certainty is beautiful, even more beautiful than uncertainty.
They thought they didn't know each other,
nothing had ever happened between them,
These streets, these stairs, this corridors,
Where they could have met so long ago?
I would like to ask them, if they can remember -
perhaps in a revolving door face to face one day?
A "sorry" in the crowd?
"Wrong number" on the 'phone?
- but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember.
How surprised they would be
For such a long time already
Fate has been playing with them.
Not quite yet ready to change into destiny,
which brings them nearer and yet further,
cutting their path
and stifling a laugh,
escaping ever further;
There were sings, indications,
undecipherable, what does in matter.
Three years ago, perhaps or even last Tuesday,
this leaf flying from one shoulder to another?
Something lost and gathered.
Who knows, perhaps a ball already
in the bushes, in childhood?
There were handles, door bells,
where, on the trace of a hand,
another hand was placed;
suitcases next to one another in the left luggage.
And maybe one night the same dream forgotten on walking;
But every badging is only a continuation,
and the book of fate is always open in the middle.
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