Fra "The joy of writing":

Why does this written doe bound through this written woods? For a drink of written water from a spring whose surface will xerox her soft muzzle? Why does she lift her head; does she hear something? Perched on four slim legs borrowed from the truth, she pricks up her ears beneath my fingertips. Silence - this word also rustles across the page and parts the boughs that have sprouted from the word "woods".

Les Wislawa Szymborska, den polske poet og nobelprisvinner som døde 1. februar. Mange gleder i vente!