83

The time of my singing grows shorter and shorter.

I know this by shadows and flesh,

By the size of Abbas’s grandchildren—

Dreams of the future are now in the past,

And I dream of myself as a much younger man.

How should I breathe, in these last breaths of air?

When I see light on the sea, should I say:

This is the light that will always be?

When I see poppies that shiver in wind,

Should I say: This is the wind that will always be,

This is the flower born over again?

Should I imagine that ends are beginnings,

That all of it is as it was the first hour?

Or should I put time on the scale, like Lavoisier:

This much the weight of the ending,

And this much the weight of a life.

This much is wasted,

And this much will count—

So many years lost in these hot afternoons.

It will pass quickly, so quickly, yet here I am

Stirring my tea. Abbas knocks at the door,

Calling me. What can I say in this dwindling time?