The Song
Czeslaw Milosz
She [v.III]
Oh, If there were one seed without rust inside me,
one grain that could outlast it,
then I could sleep in the cradle,
swaying into the dusk, swaying into dawn.
I would wait peacefully, until that slow movement dies away
and the real is naked suddenly,
a wildflower, a stone in the pasture staring up
with the shield of an unknown new face.
Then they, who live in the lies,
like weeds tugged all ways by the bay's wash,
would only be what pine needles are
to someone who looks at the forest from above, through the clouds.
But there is nothing in me but fear,
nothing but the running of dark waves.
I am the wind that blows in dark waters, disappearing,
I am the wind going out and not coming back,
milkweed pollen on the black meadows of the world.
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