1 January 1965

The Wise Men will unlearn your name. 

Above your head no star will flame. 

One weary sound will be the same— 

the hoarse roar of the gale. 

The shadows fall from your tired eyes

 as your lone bedside candle dies, 

for here the calendar breeds nights 

till stores of candles fail. 

 What prompts this melancholy key? 

A long familiar melody. 

It sounds again. 

So let it be. 

Let it sound from this night. 

Let it sound in my hour of death— 

as gratefulness of eyes and lips for that 

which sometimes makes us lift our gaze to the far sky. 

You glare in silence at the wall. 

Your stocking gapes: no gifts at all.

It's clear that you are now too old to trust in good Saint Nick; 

that it's too late for miracles. —

But suddenly, 

lifting your eyes to heaven's light,

 you realize: your life is a sheer gift. 

 --- JOSEPH BRODSKY (TRANSLATED BY GEORGE L. KLINE)