I look at the beard of my old teacher and friend
like a gray spider web of rain
I look at his boots covered with American mud
In two rocking chairs
we sit out on the back porch
Wherever he looks
causes the shoot of a poem to grow
Where is your kosmos? I ask him
Where is the Western world one and inseparable?
the democracy? the eternal progress?
Rain drips down from his eyelids
into the constellation of his beard
His shoulders bend
under the invisible weight
That's up to you, he says calmly,
I am expecting the main things from you.