It does not know it glitters
It does not know it flies
It does not know it is this not that.
And, more and more often, agape,
With my Gauloise dying out,
Over a glass of red wine,
I muse on the meaning of being this not that.
Just as long ago, when I was twenty,
But then there was a hope I would be everything,
Perhaps even a butterfly or a thrush, by magic.
Now I see dusty district roads
And a town where the postmaster gets drunk every day
Melancholy with remaining identical to himself.
If only the stars contained me.
If only everything kept happening in such a way
That the so-called world opposed the so-called flesh.
Were I at least not contradictory. Alas.
(Czeslaw Milosz)
More Poetry from Czeslaw Milosz:
Czeslaw Milosz Poems based on Topics: Hope, Wine, Butterflies- Child of Europe (Czeslaw Milosz Poems)
- Annalena (Czeslaw Milosz Poems)
- Christopher Robin (Czeslaw Milosz Poems)
- And Yet The Books (Czeslaw Milosz Poems)
- A Hall (Czeslaw Milosz Poems)
- By the Peonies (Czeslaw Milosz Poems)
Readers Who Like This Poem Also Like:
Based on Topics: Hope Poems, Wine Poems, Butterflies PoemsBased on Keywords: identical, so-called, contradictory, postmaster, gauloise