When, after a long life, it falls out. That he takes on a form he had sought. And every word carved in stone. Grows its hoarfrost, what then? Torches. Of Dionysian choruses in the dark mountains. From when he comes. And half of the sky. With its snaky clouds. A mirror before him. In the mirror the already severed, perishing. Thing.
Czeslaw MiloszAbout author
- Author's profession: Poet
- Born: June 30, 1911
- Died: August 14, 2004
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