Isaac Ilyich Levitan
"Forest Lake," 1890s

Eras aren’t chosen—
They live, they die.
Nothing’s more vulgar
Than begging and complaining,
As if you could trade one age for another
Like haggling at a market.

Every era is an iron age.
Yet a garden of wonders still smolders,
A cloud glimmers; at five years old
I should’ve died of scarlet fever,
Had I lived in some innocent age
Free from sorrow.

You count yourself among the fortunate,
But would you want to live under the Terrible?
Do you dream of Florence’s plague,
Of leprosy?
You want to ride first class,
Not in the dark hold?

Every era is an iron age.
Yet a garden of wonders still smolders,
A cloud glimmers; I’ll embrace
My age, my fate, in farewell.
Time is a trial.
Envy no one.

The grip is tight, unyielding.
Time is skin, not clothing.
Its mark runs deep—
Like fingerprints left on glass,
Its lines and folds
Are visible, if you look closely.

Alexander Kushner, 1978

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