Czeslaw Milosz

(30 June 1911 – 14 August 2004 / Kedainiai)

Encounter


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.

Submitted: Monday, January 20, 2003

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  • Catherine Casey (10/29/2011 4:10:00 PM)

    Yesterday, about two hours before I first read this poem, I was walking up a hill and there was a slight Autumnal chill in the air and I heard the local church bells ring for 7.30 a.m.

    It prompted me to think about times gone by and when other people had heard the same bell and felt the same chill in the air.

    I thought how it was just as real for them at that time as it was for me at that moment.

    I thought about the saying that 'Time was created so that everything doesn't happen at once.'

    It made me wonder if the place that these fleeting senses start and end is with the creator himself.

    I was shown this poem a few hours later for the first time and the same sentiment that Czeslaw had written about and described had risen again along the timeline.

    Rather than just being called a case of history repeating itself I prefer to think of the scenario as a genuine call to be still and ponder the depths of life and the hereafter. (Report) Reply

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