Poems by Wislawa Szymborska

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I'm a tranquillizer,
I act at home,
I work in the office,
I face exams,
I show up for the hearing,
I glue together carefully broken cups -
you only have to take me,
make me melt under your tongue,
you only have to swallow me
with a sip of water.
I know how to treat unhappiness,
how to face bad news,
reduce justice,
risk the absence of God,
choosing a nice little mourning hat.
What are you waiting for -
trust in chemical pity.
You're still a young man (woman),
you should sort yourself out somehow.
Who said life should be lived with courage?
Give me your abyss -
I'll stuff it with sleep.
You'll be grateful for your standing fall.
Sell me your soul.
There won't be another buyer.
There isn't another devil anymore.

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An onion is something else.
It doesn't have any innerds.
Until its onioness.
Oniony outside,
oniony to the heart,
it could look within itself
without feeling any fear.
In us the unknown and forests
of flesh just covered,
infernal innerds,
violent anatomy,
but within the onion - onion,
not contorted bowels.
She is time and time again naked,
till the end and so on.
The onion is coherent,
the onion is realized.
In one there's the other,
in the biggest the smallest,
meaning the third and the fourth.
A centripetal flight.
A composed echo in a choir.
The onion, okay:
the most beautiful belly in the world.
To itself of auras
it wraps around itself.
In us - fat, nerves, veins,
muchus ad secretions.
And to us is negated
the idiocy of perfection.