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No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.

Wislawa Szymborska

I’m drowning in papers.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Drown Myself One Liner Paper Poet
In every tragedy, an element of comedy is preserved. Comedy is just tragedy reversed.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Comedy Element Preserve Tragedy
Animals don’t even try to look any different from what nature intended. They humbly wear their shells, scales, spines, plumes, pelts, and down. The conscious impulse to change one’s appearance is found only among humans.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Animal Appearance Conscious Different Human Oneself Try
Poets yearn, of course, to be published, read, and understood, but they do little, if anything, to set themselves above the common herd and the daily grind.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Common Poet Publish Reading Understand
Somewhere out there the world must have an end.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Cosmos End Space World
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Chaos Hell Myself Order Preference
We’re extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in. One would have to live a long, long time, unquestionably longer than the world itself.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Fortune Kind Live Precise Question World
Out of every hundred people, those who always know better: fifty-two.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Better Knowledge People
There’s simply too much fuss about myself.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Confusion Mess Myself Simplicity
Life lasts but a few scratches of the claw in the sand.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Land Life Scratch Time
Something doesn’t start at its usual time. Something doesn’t happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Disappear Start Stay Stubborn Time
I like being near the top of a mountain. One can’t get lost here.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Lost Mountain Myself Nature Oneself Place
I slide my arm from under the sleeper’s head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Angel Count Head Myself Sleep
Every beginning is only a sequel, after all, and the book of events is always open halfway through.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Beginning Book Half Myself Open
Keep up the good work, if only for a while, if only for the twinkling of a tiny galaxy.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Galaxy Goodness Work
When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.
WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA

Destroy Future Myself Past Silence Word

No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.

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No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kisses.

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