The bomb will off in the bar at one-twenty.

Now it’s only one-sixteen.

Some will still manage to go in.

Some to go out.

The terrorist had already crossed the street.

At this distance he’s safe,

and has a view like in the movies:

A woman in a yellow jacket - she goes in.

A man in sunglasses - he goes out.

Boys in jeans - they are talking.

One-seventeen and four seconds.

The smaller one is lucky and rides off on a bike,

but the taller one goes in.

One-seventeen and forty seconds.

A young woman, green ribbon in her hair, is walking.

But a bus suddenly blocks the view.

The young woman in nowhere to be seen.

Was she stupid enough to go in?

We’ll see when they carry them out.

One-nineteen.

Nobody goes in.

Instead, one man, fat and bald, goes out.

But he seems to be looking for something in his pockets

and at one-twenty, less ten seconds,

he goes back for his silly gloves.

It’s one-twenty.

How the time crawls.

Maybe, it’s now.

No, not yet.

Yes, now.

The bomb goes off.

                      -  Wislawa Szymborska (b. 1923) Polish