Nic_dwa_razy_w_szymborska -

But the river was never the same water twice. One day it was a slate grey, heavy with autumn rain; the next, it was a shimmering ribbon of silver reflecting a stubborn April sun. Marek found himself frustrated. He wanted the original peace, not a new version of it.

Marek lived his life as if he were waiting for a replay. He would sit by the same bend of the Vistula River every Tuesday, hoping to feel the exact same rush of peace he had felt one summer afternoon years ago. He wore the same wool coat, brought the same thermos of bitter coffee, and tried to think the same thoughts. nic_dwa_razy_w_szymborska

Marek looked at her. He thought of the poem’s lines: “No day copies yesterday, no two nights will teach what bliss is in precisely the same way, with precisely the same kiss.” But the river was never the same water twice

One evening, an old woman sat on the bench beside him. She was humming a melody that sounded vaguely familiar—a song by that set Szymborska’s poem to music. He wanted the original peace, not a new version of it