Do Not Die Out, Fire.


Here’s a poem from     Czeslaw Milosz :



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.





<a href=””>Pungent</a&gt;

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