Perfume Poem

 

“The road weaves upward accompanied by a drum and a flute,

Round and round the bends, where the scent is more and more honeyed.

Plaited beehives, their straw shines like brass,

Sunflowers in rows, thyme.

And there, four turrets: facing East, West, North and South.

Where you enter the gate it’s as if they were waiting for you.

Complete silence in a rose garden,

Around it, an expanse of green hills,

Of blue-green, up to the very clouds.”

 

from ‘The Accuser’ by Czeslaw Milosz

 

It’s almost like a formula for a perfume, this magical bit of poetry.  I’d love to smell it.

 

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