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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.
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
MiĆosz
Czelaw Milosz
Even
Protest
Protests
Runs
Screams
Calls
Revolving
Lips
Messenger
Remain
Messengers
Wakened
Fields
Perish
Tireless
Word
Galaxy
Interstellar
Running
Scream
Galaxies
More quotes by Czeslaw Milosz
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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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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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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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.
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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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Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth. Do not follow those who lie in contempt of reality. Let your lie be even more logical than the truth itself, so the weary travelers may find repose.
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If I am all mankind, are they themselves without me?
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I liked beaches, swimming pools, and clinics for there they were the bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. I pitied them and myself, but this will not protect me. The word and the thought are over.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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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.
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We have become indifferent to content, and react, not even to form, but to technique, to technical efficiency itself.
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Human reason is beautiful and invincible. No bars, no barbed wire, no pulping of books, No sentence of banishment can prevail against it. It puts what should be above things as they are. It does not know Jew from Greek nor slave from master.
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Poetry is a dividend from what you know and what you are.
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I have no wisdom, no skills, and no faith but I received strength, it tears the world apart. I shall break, a heavy wave, against its shores and a young wave will cover my trace.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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From life, from the apple cut by the flaming knife, what grain will be saved? My son, believe me, nothing remains, Only adult toil, the furrow of fate in the palm. Only toil, Nothing more.
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