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On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

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
Ends
World
Mends
Glimmering
Clover
Clovers
Fisherman
Bees
Circles

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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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Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
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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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The child who dwells inside us trusts that there are wise men somewhere who know the truth.
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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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What is this enigmatic impulse that does not allow one to settle down in the achieved, the finished? I think it is a quest for reality.
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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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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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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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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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You see how I try To reach with words What matters most And how I fail.
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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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At every sunrise I renounce the doubts of night and greet the new day of a most precious delusion.
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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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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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Consciousness even in my sleep changes primary colors. The features of my face melt like a wax doll in the fire. And who can consent to see in the mirror the mere face of man?
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It is sweet to think I was a companion in an expedition that never ends
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