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Do not feel safe. The poet remembers. You can kill one, but another is born. The words are written down, the deed, the date.

Czeslaw Milosz

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Czeslaw Milosz
Age: 93 †
Born: 1911
Born: June 30
Died: 2004
Died: August 14
Diplomat
Essayist
Pedagogue
Poet
Translator
University Teacher
Writer
Clarksburg
West Virginia
Miłosz
Czelaw Milosz
Written
Remembers
Words
Born
Deed
Another
Date
Remember
Deeds
Feel
Kill
Feels
Poet
Safe

More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz

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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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Even if that is so, there will remain A word wakened by lips that perish, A tireless messenger who runs and runs Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies, And calls out, protests, screams.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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For a country without a past is nothing, a word That, hardly spoken, loses its meaning, A perishable wall destroyed by flame, An echo of animal emotions.
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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.
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I think that I am here, on this earth, to present a report on it, but to whom I don't know. As if I were sent so that whatever takes place has meaning because it changes into memory.
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All of us yearn for the highest wisdom, but we have to rely on ourselves in the end.
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A day so happy. Fog lifted early. I worked in the garden. Hummingbirds were stopping over honeysuckle flowers. There was no thing on earth I wanted to possess. I know no one worth my envying him.
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I imagine the earth when I am no more: Women's dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley. Yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born, Derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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The soul exceeds its circumstances.
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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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In a room where people unanimously maintain a conspiracy of silence, one word of truth sounds like a pistol shot.
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They used to pour millet on graves or poppy seeds To feed the dead who would come disguised as birds. I put this book here for you, who once lived So that you should visit us no more.
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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The partition separating life from death is so tenuous. The unbelievable fragility of our organism suggests a vision on a screen: a kind of mist condenses itself into a human shape, lasts a moment and scatters.
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