The pungent smells of a California winter,
Grayness and rosiness, an almost transparent full moon.
I add logs to the fire,
I drink and I ponder. “In Ilawa,” the news item said, “at age 70 Died Aleksander Rymkiewicz, poet.” He was the youngest in our group.
I patronized him slightly,
Just as I patronized others for their inferior minds Though they had many virtues I couldn’t touch.
And so I am here, approaching the end Of the century and of my life.
Proud of my strength Yet embarrassed by the clearness of the view.
Avant-gardes mixed with blood.
The ashes of inconceivable arts.
An omnium-gatherum of chaos.
I passed judgment on that.
Though marked myself.
This hasn’t been the age for the righteous and the decent.
I know what it means to beget monsters And to recognize in them myself.
You, moon,
You,
Aleksander, fire of cedar logs.
Waters close over us, a name lasts but an instant.
Not important whether the generations hold us in memory.
Great was that chase with the hounds for the unattainable meaning of the world.
And now I am ready to keep running When the sun rises beyond the borderlands of death.
I already see mountain ridges in the heavenly forest Where, beyond every essence, a new essence waits.
You, music of my late years,
I am called By a sound and a color which are more and more perfect.
Do not die out, fire.
Enter my dreams, love.
Be young forever, seasons of the earth.
