My handwriting is not calligraphic. br Not following the rules of beauty, br words stagger about, br reeling, br as if clobbered on the jaw. br br But you, the descendant, my textual critic, br following on the heels of the past, br take stock of those gales br your ancestor got caught in. br br He walked on a pugnacious coastal freighter, br a bit arrogant, br but you br should see beyond the pitched handwriting br not only the author’s traits. br br Your ancestor wrote while tossed about, br not kept too warm by squalls, br habitually, br like having a pack br of his usual cigarettes. br br Of course, far off we made our way courageously, br but it’s hard to write a line, br when your head is smashed with relish br against the bulkhead. br br Risking skin and bones, br it’s tough to sing acclaim, br when what you see compels you br not to praise, but only to throw up. br br When churning water strangles motors br and a wave’s curl is aimed at your forehead, br then smudges are better than flourishes. br They’re black-but true. br br Here- fingers simply grew numb. br Here- the swell slyly tormented. br Here- the pen jerked with uncertainty br away from some mean shoal. br br But if through all the clumsiness, br through the clutches of awkwardness, br an idea breaks through the way a freighter on br the Lena breaks through to the arctic shore- br br then, descendant, be slow to curse the style, br don’t judge an ancestor severely, br and even in the handwriting of the poet br find a solution to the enigma of time. br br br 1967 br Translated by Albert C.