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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.

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
Strength
Shore
Shall
Received
Wisdom
Cover
Break
Apart
Faith
Wave
Young
Heavy
World
Skills
Shores
Tears
Trace

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All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.
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What is poetry which does not save nations or people?
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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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The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.
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Language is the only homeland.
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Men will clutch at illusions when they have nothing else to hold to.
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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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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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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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What has no shadow has no strength to live.
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The purpose of poetry is to remind us / how difficult it is to remain just one person.
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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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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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When I curse Fate, it's not me, but the earth in me.
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A true opium of the people is a belief in nothingness after death.
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The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.
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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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The true enemy of man is generalization.
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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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I am composed of contradictions, which is why poetry is a better form for me than philosophy
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