Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year, <br />I felt a door opening in me and I entered <br />the clarity of early morning. <br /> <br />One after another my former lives were departing, <br />like ships, together with their sorrow. <br /> <br />And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas <br />assigned to my brush came closer, <br />ready now to be described better than they were before. <br /> <br />I was not separated from people, <br />grief and pity joined us. <br />We forget - I kept saying - that we are all children of the King. <br /> <br />For where we come from there is no division <br />into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be. <br /> <br />We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part <br />of the gift we received for our long journey. <br /> <br />Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago - <br />a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror <br />of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel <br />staving its hull against a reef - they dwell in us, <br />waiting for a fulfillment. <br /> <br />I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard, <br />as are all men and women living at the same time, <br />whether they are aware of it or not.<br /><br />Czeslaw Milosz<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/late-ripeness/
