Saturday, May 13, 2017

Encounter by Czesław Miłosz


We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn. 
A red wing rose in the darkness. 

And suddenly a hare ran across the road. 
One of us pointed to it with his hand. 

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive, 
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture. 

O my love, where are they, where are they going 
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles. 
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder. 

(Translated by Czesław Miłosz)


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