Methuselah's Age Poem by Oleg Vorobyov

Nine hundred sixty-nine, -
Tremendously long,
Though, maybe, as they say,
Not fabulously much
According to our time.

Long record - lasting life,
The years' passing throng,
A span of enduring stay
To a clod of dust attached -
As mortal as I am?

What passed before his eyes? -
Destructions and heydays;
Afflictions and remedies;
Famines and plentitudes, -
Thus, he had grown wise?

Did he a remission crave
To loosen the merciless course?
Could he woe from joy detach,
The indefinite term appease
On a wearied crawl to grave?

I wish I'd climb the tower
Of Methuselah's height
To survey what's to be our
Slim, nascent hereafter,
So overt, so recondite.

What pictures, what etudes,
What equivocal ways,
A Hell, or Paradis,
Prostrate themselves beyond?
What mileage arcane?