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 MiloszAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Born: June 30, 1911
- Died: August 14, 2004
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