- Some people flee some other people. In some country under a sun and some clouds. They abandon something like 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 another oddly reddish river. Around them, some gunshots, now nearer, now farther away, above them a plane sort of circles.
- Some invisibility would come in handy, some grayish stoniness, or, better yet, some nonexistence for a shorter or a longer while.
- Something else will happen, only where and what. Someone will come at them, only when and who, in how many shapes, with what intentions. If he has a choice, maybe he won’t be the enemy and will let them live some sort of life. - Some People BY WISLAWA SZYMBORSKA December 30, 1996