I posted this Wislawa Szymborska poem once before, exactly five years ago. It is as timely in my life as ever.
A Contribution to Statistics.
Out of a hundred people
those who always know better
– fifty-two,
doubting every step
– nearly all the rest,
glad to lend a hand
if it doesn’t take to long
– as high as forty nine,
always good
because they can’t be otherwise
– four, well maybe five,
able to admire without envy
– eighteen,
suffering illusions
induced by fleeting youth
- sixty, give or take a few,
not to be taken lightly
– fourty and four,
living in constant fear
of someone or something
– seventy-seven,
capable of happiness
– twenty-something tops,
harmless singly
savage in crowds
– half at least,
cruel
when forced by circumstances
– better not to know
even ballpark figures,
wise after the fact
- just a couple more
than wise before it,
taking only things from life
– thirty
(I wish I were wrong),
hunched in pain
no flashlight in the dark
– eighty-three
sooner or later,
righteous
– thirty-five, which is a lot,
righteous
and understanding
-three,
worthy of compassion
– ninety-nine,
mortal
– a hundred out of a hundred.
Thus far this figure remains unchanged.






I think he about nailed it. And so did you, in picking poems.
She. But she’s very fine. Glad you liked this one.
Oops.
That’s a good one.