Perspective

They passed like strangers,
without a word or gesture,
her off to the store,
him heading for the car.

Perhaps startled
or distracted,
or forgetting
that for a short while
they'd been in love forever.

Still, there's no guarantee
that it was them.
Maybe yes from a distance,
but not close up.

I watched them from the window
and those who observe from above
are often mistaken.

She vanished behind the glass door.
He got in behind the wheels
and took off.
As if nothing had happened,
if it had.

And I, sure for just a moment
that I'd seen it,
strive to convince you, O Readers,
that it was sad.



Poem by Wislawa Szymborska
(Translated, from the Polish, by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)
The New Yorker, Dec 26, 2005-Jan 2, 2006 issue.