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.