Last year, I gathered the courage to let your poetry pierce me as acutely as it could, and I have been walking around with a knife that was slowly driven into my aorta as I read your words one after another ravenously. If that knife were pulled out, I would die. Instantly. Milosz, master, I come to you. Again. I desperately wish my heart is ripe enough to assimilate your words. Again. I fold my hands and bow to thee. Take me under your wings, again, kind master.
(Image from the blog of Steven Fama, a fellow ardent fan of Miłosz)
Silkworm Slumbers 