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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360096" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>It Was Winter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Winter came as it does in this valley. <br>After eight dry months rain fell <br>And the mountains, straw-colored, turned green for a while. <br>In the canyons where gray laurels <br>Graft their stony roots to granite, <br>Streams must have filled the dried-up creek beds. <br>Ocean winds churned the eucalyptus trees, <br>And under clouds torn by a crystal of towers <br>Prickly lights were glowing on the docks. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>This is not a place where you sit under a café awning <br>On a marble piazza, watching the crowd, <br>Or play the flute at a window over a narrow street <br>While children’s sandals clatter in the vaulted entryway. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>They heard of a land, empty and vast, <br>Bordered by mountains. So they went, leaving behind crosses <br>Of thorny wood and traces of campfires. <br>As it happened, they spent winter in the snow of a mountain pass, <br>And drew lots and boiled the bones of their companions; <br>And so afterward a hot valley where indigo could be grown <br>Seemed beautiful to them. And beyond, where fog <br>Heaved into shoreline coves, the ocean labored. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Sleep: rocks and capes will lie down inside you, <br>War councils of motionless animals in a barren place, <br>Basilicas of reptiles, a frothy whiteness. <br>Sleep on your coat, while your horse nibbles grass <br>And an eagle gauges a precipice. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>When you wake up, you will have the parts of the world. <br>West, an empty conch of water and air. <br>East, always behind you, the voided memory of snow-covered fir. <br>And extending from your outspread arms <br>Nothing but bronze grasses, north and south. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>We are poor people, much afflicted. <br>We camped under various stars, <br>Where you dip water with a cup from a muddy river <br>And slice your bread with a pocketknife. <br>This is the place; accepted, not chosen. <br>We remembered that there were streets and houses where we came <br>from, <br>So there had to be houses here, a saddler’s signboard, <br>A small veranda with a chair. But empty, a country where <br>The thunder beneath the rippled skin of the earth, <br>The breaking waves, a patrol of pelicans, nullified us. <br>As if our vases, brought here from another shore, <br>Were the dug-up spearheads of some lost tribe <br>Who fed on lizards and acorn flour. </div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>And here I am walking the eternal earth. <br>Tiny, leaning on a stick. <br>I pass a volcanic park, lie down at a spring, <br>Not knowing how to express what is always and everywhere: <br>The earth I cling to is so solid <br>Under my breast and belly that I feel grateful <br>For every pebble, and I don’t know whether <br>It is my pulse or the earth’s that I hear, <br>When the hems of invisible silk vestments pass over me, <br>Hands, wherever they have been, touch my arm, <br>Or small laughter, once, long ago over wine, <br>With lanterns in the magnolias, for my house is huge.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Czeslaw+Milosz">Czeslaw Milosz</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=360096" data-title="It Was Winter de Czeslaw Milosz" data-description="Winter came as it does in this valley. 
After eight dry months rain fell 
And the mountains, straw-colored, turned green for a while. 
In the canyons where gray laurels 
Graft their stony roots to granite, 
Streams must have filled the dried-up cr..."></div>
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