Why does this written doe bound through these written woods?/
For a drink of 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".
By Wislawa Zymborska
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