Czeslaw Milosz Poems
|42.||Study Of Loneliness||1/3/2003|
|51.||In Black Despair||1/13/2003|
|53.||A Poem For The End Of The Century||1/3/2003|
|56.||Campo Di Fiori||1/3/2003|
|57.||I Sleep A Lot||1/3/2003|
|58.||Conversation With Jeanne||1/3/2003|
|59.||And Yet The Books||1/8/2004|
|64.||Child Of Europe||2/2/2004|
|65.||At A Certain Age||1/3/2003|
Comments about Czeslaw Milosz
At A Certain Age
We wanted to confess our sins but there were no takers.
White clouds refused to accept them, and the wind
Was too busy visiting sea after sea.
We did not succeed in interesting the animals.
Dogs, disappointed, expected an order,
A cat, as always immoral, was falling asleep.
A person seemingly very close
Did not care to hear of things long past.
Conversations with friends over vodka or coffee
Ought not be prolonged beyond the first sign of boredom.
It would be humiliating to pay by the hour
A man with a diploma, just for listening.
Churches. Perhaps churches....
Study Of Loneliness
A guardian of long-distance conduits in the desert?
A one-man crew of a fortress in the sand?
Whoever he was. At dawn he saw furrowed mountains
The color of ashes, above the melting darkness,
Saturated with violet, breaking into fluid rouge,
Till they stood, immense, in the orange light.
Day after day. And, before he noticed, year after year.
For whom, he thought, that splendor? For me alone?
Yet it will be here long after I perish.