Tuesday, December 19, 2006


JANUARY 1, 1965

Joseph Brodsky

The kings will lose your old address.
No star will flare up to impress.
The ear may yield, under duress,
to blizzards´ nagging roar.
The shadows falling off your back,
you´d snuff the candle, hit the sack,
for calendars more nights can pack
than there are candles for.

What is this? Sadness? Yes, perhaps.
A little tune that never stops.
One knows by heart its downs and ups.
May it be played on par
with things to come, with one´s eclipse,
as gratefulness of eyes and lips
for what occasionally keeps
them trained on something far.

And staring up where no cloud drifts
because your sock´s devoid of gifts
you´ll understand this thrift: it fits
your age; it´s not a slight.
It is too late for some breakthrough,
for miracles, for Santa´s crew.
And suddenly you´ll realize that you
yourself are a gift outright.