Wisława Szymborska and the Wounded Angel

A Polish poet was taking her exam on the History of Humanity.
It was still winter, but the first snowdrops had pushed
Their way through the hard earth. The grass was still brown,
But there were bushes with leaves. Inside, a pencil scratched
Stubbornly against a sheet of cheap paper. The questions
On the exam were difficult, were impossible. Beyond the window,
The sky would not let go of winter, and no one was warmed by the
          sun.
She closed her eyes and saw the two boys. The one in front
Looked straight ahead. His hat, jacket, and pants were so black
They could have been made of stone instead of cloth. His shoes
Had been repaired and repaired again. If he had any hopes left,
They were for a bowl of soup and a slice of gray bread that tasted
Of rye and lard. The other boy wore a jacket too small for him.
He was angry and, if she had asked, would have told her to throw
The pencil onto the floor and leave. There was something sadistic
In the way his eyes squinted at her. She could not force him
To recognize her or anyone. The boys carried an angel bent over
On a stretcher. A bandage covered the angel’s eyes; there was blood
On one of her wings. The angel carried the exam answers in her
          hand,
A few white snowdrops she couldn’t see. Her robe trailed along the
          ground.
The Polish poet knew it was too late. She’d grown old, and the exam
Was already over. But the boys refused to stop walking, and the angel
Still allowed herself to be carried, bent over on the stretcher. The
          Polish poet
Returned to her apartment, sat at her desk, and listened to the traffic
          outside.
She could hear footsteps in the hallway.