Not early as late as the approach of my ninetieth year.

Not early as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,

I felt a door opening in me and I recorded

the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,

like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas

assigned to my brush came closer

ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from commonalty

grief and pity joined us.

We forget- I kept saying-that we are all children of the King.

For where we proceed from there is no division

into Ye and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a centesimal part

of the gift we received for our lengthy journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago--

a sword efflorescence the painting of eyelashes before a mirror

of polished metal, a lethal musket missile a caravel

staving its husk against a reef-they dwell in us,

waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,

as are all men and women living at the same time,

whether they are aware of it or not.

...

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