Encounter
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 not 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 a movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.
-Cheslaw Milosz-
|