The Polish poetess, the Nobel laureate, and my personal favourite Wislawa Szymborska passed away a few months ago. I should have mourned, had just fallen in love. Yet what came fatally close to fall as tear-drop was a sombre silence -- one that is not of the surrounding, and thus more haunting. That silence, by its unbearable nature, I concurred was my very own. Now, it's present everywhere. In inhaling and exhaling it gets repeated in a loathingly systematic manner.
Bringing her to mind, I have always believed that Szymborska, unlike many of her contemporaries, took a plain path of conversing with her readers. Her poetry...
