Nothing Twice
Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice. Even if there is no one dumber, if you’re the planet’s biggest dunce, you can’t repeat the class in summer: this course is only offered once. No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses. One day, perhaps some idle tongue mentions your name by accident: I feel as if a rose were flung into the room, all hue and scent. The next day, though you’re here with me, I can’t help looking at the clock: A rose? A rose? What could that be? Is it a flower or a rock? Why do we treat the fleeting day with so much needless fear and sorrow? It’s in its nature not to stay: Today is always gone tomorrow. With smiles and kisses, we prefer to seek accord beneath our star, although we’re different (we concur) just as two drops of water are.
Poems New and Collected: 1957–1997 by Wisława Szymborska (Harcourt, 1998). Translated by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh.
When posting poems in translation, it's important to include the translator! In this case, Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanaugh.
This is what I think of when someone comments "Not a single orignal experience" under a relatable post. Even a kind look from the same pair of eyes is never the same every time. Yeah, we all experienced it, but we felt it differently.