Quotes
The survivors ran through the fields, escaping. From themselves, knowing they wouldn't return. For a hundred years. Before them were spread. Those quicksands where a tree changes into nothing, Into an anti-tree, where no borderline. Separates a shape from a shape, and where, Amid thunder, the golden house of is. Collapses, and the word becoming ascends.
Czeslaw Milosz
And Yet the Books. And yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings, That appeared once, still wet. As shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn, And, touched, coddled, began to live. In spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up, Tribes on the march, planets in motion.
Czeslaw Milosz
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