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By: Czeslaw Milosz
My Lord, I loved strawberry jam And the dark sweetness of a woman’s body. Also well-chilled vodka, herring in olive oil, Scents, of cinnamon, of cloves. So what kind of prophet am I? Why should the spirit Have visited such a man? Many others Were justly called, and trustworthy. Who would have trusted me? For they saw How I empty glasses, throw myself on food, And glance greedily at the waitress’s neck. Flawed and aware of it. Desiring greatness, Able to recognise greatness wherever it is, And yet not quite, only in part, clairvoyant, I knew what was left for smaller men like me: A feast of brief hopes, a rally of the proud, A tournament of hunchbacks, literature.