The Nobel Prize in Literature 1980
We were riding through frozen fields in a
wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.
And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
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.
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.
By Czeslaw Milosz from "The Collected Poems
Translated by Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee
Copyright © Czeslaw Milosz and Lillian Vallee