Encounter
We were riding through
frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran
across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.
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.
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.
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
~ Czeslaw Milosz
~
(The Collected Poems 1931 -
1987,
translated by Czeslaw Milosz and
Lillian Vallee)
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