Poem by Wislawa Symborska

SOME PEOPLE by Wislawa Szymborska

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 greyish stoniness,
or, better yet, some nonexistence
for a shorter or longer while

Something else will happen, only
where and what.
Someone will come at them, only when and who,
in how many shapes and what intentions.

If he has a choice
maybe he won’t be the enemy
and will let them live some sort of life.