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.