"Love at First Sight" - Szymborska

"Love at First Sight" is a poem by Wislawa Szymborska, a Polish poet, essayist, and translator. Her poem was used in Johnnie To and Wai Ka Fai's 2003 HK film "Turn Left, Turn Right", starring Takeshi Kaneshiro and Gigi Leung.

一見鐘情

他們彼此深信
是瞬間迸發的熱情讓他們相遇
這樣的確定是美麗的
但變幻無常更為美麗
他們素未謀面
所以他們確定彼此並無任何瓜葛
但是自街道、樓梯、大堂
傳來的話語......
他們也許擦肩而過一百萬次了吧
我想問他們是否記得
在旋轉門面對面那一剎
或是在人群中喃喃道出的 「對不起」
或是在電話的另一端道出的「 打錯了」
但是我早知道答案
是的
他們並不記得
他們會很訝異
原來緣分已經戲弄他們多年

時機尚未成熟
變成他們的命運
緣分
將他們推進
距離
阻擋他們的去路
忍住笑聲
然後閃到一旁

Literally translated version from "Turn Left, Turn Right"
Love at First Sight
they're both convinced
that a sudden passion joined them.
such certainty is more beautiful,
but uncertainty is more beautiful still.
since they'd never met before, they're sure
that there'd been nothing between them.
but what's the word from the streets, staircases, hallways--
perhaps they've passed by each other a million times?
I want to ask them
if they don't remember--
a moment face to face
in some revolving door?
perhaps a "sorry" muttered in a crowd?
a curt "wrong number" caught in the receiver?--
but I know the answer.
no, they don't remember.
they'd be amazed to hear
that chance has been toying with them
now for years.
not quite ready yet

to become their destiny,
it pushed them close, drove them apart,
it barred their path,
stifling a laugh,
and then leaped aside.

There are 2 well-known English versions of Wislawa Szymborska's "Love at First Sight.
Love at First Sight
Translation by Roman Gren
They both thought
that a sudden feeling had united them
This certainty is beautiful,
Even more beautiful than uncertainty.
They thought they didn’t know each other,
nothing had ever happened between them,
These streets, these stairs, this corridors,
Where they could have met so long ago?
I would like to ask them,
if they can remember – perhaps in a revolving door
face to face one day?
A “sorry” in the crowd?
“Wrong number” on the ‘phone? – but I know the answer.
No, they don’t remember.
How surprised they would be
For such a long time already
Fate has been playing with them.
Not quite yet ready
to change into destiny,
which brings them nearer and yet further,
cutting their path
and stifling a laugh,
escaping ever further;
There were sings, indications,
undecipherable, what does in matter.
Three years ago, perhaps
or even last Tuesday,
this leaf flying
from one shoulder to another?
Something lost and gathered.
Who knows, perhaps a ball already
in the bushes, in childhood?
There were handles, door bells,
where, on the trace of a hand,
another hand was placed;
suitcases next to one another in the
left luggage.
And maybe one night the same dream
forgotten on walking;
But every beginning

is only a continuation
and the book of fate is
always open in the middle.

Love at First Sight
Translation by Walter Whipple
Both are convinced
that a sudden surge of emotion bound them together.
Beautiful is such a certainty,
but uncertainty is more beautiful.
Because they didn’t know each other earlier, they suppose that
nothing was happening between them.
What of the streets, stairways and corridors
where they could have passed each other long ago?
I’d like to ask them
whether they remember—perhaps in a revolving door
ever being face to face?
an “excuse me” in a crowd
or a voice “wrong number” in the receiver.
But I know their answer:
no, they don’t remember.
They’d be greatly astonished
to learn that for a long time
chance had been playing with them.
Not yet wholly ready
to transform into fate for them
it approached them, then backed off,
stood in their way
and, suppressing a giggle,
jumped to the side.
There were signs, signals:
but what of it if they were illegible.
Perhaps three years ago,
or last Tuesday
did a certain leaflet fly
from shoulder to shoulder?
There was something lost and picked up.
Who knows but what it was a ball
in the bushes of childhood.
There were doorknobs and bells
on which earlier
touch piled on touch.
Bags beside each other in the luggage room.
Perhaps they had the same dream on a certain night,
suddenly erased after waking.
Every beginning

is but a continuation,
and the book of events
is never more than half open.

*Such a wonderful poem about love.