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As I read some poems by Wislawa Szymborska
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She prefers the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.
In her closet lies a forest, water drops, and clouds.
With the joy of writing she reflects on subtle life.
The word "silence" rustles on the paper.
Hitler's photo, still life, personal resume, medical report,
Terrorist's glance, dead beetle, dreams, and advertisement,
Nothing can't be taken down under her pen and broad vision.
She stays quiet with plants, and discusses with stones.
She thinks creatively in museums, and reveries oddly in theater.
In dusk she lights up, and talks about Himalaya.
At night she hears the sound of silence colliding with silence.
As for me, I didn't really understand,
every thing and every word in her eyes,
were so unique and wonderful to exist in this world.
Remark: Many titles and sentences of her poems are quoted directly in the above. 
=======Wislawa Szymborska, a polish poet
The Three Odd Words
When I pronounce the word Future,
the first syllable already belongs to the past.
When I pronounce the word Silence,
I destroy it.
When I pronounce the word Nothing,
I make something no non-being can hold.
