translated by Angelos Sakkis

When she laid eyes on the shore
a taste of benthos in her mouth, a whale’s scream
she said, the waste land is me,
how do I walk, an outcast here,
with dumb horse-slaying words
my card reversed, and it’s at the wheel.

The ex machina ones are galloping again
those with the crooked shafts
and it’s a mournful place
for they had a hunting son
they had a son corsair,
and I had a proclivity
a nice bent of neck.

The omens, crazy shills.
The beauty now
to men enslaved.
Beauty kills.
            That I’ll reveal.

The death of
a poet
won’t be kept from the poem.
            That it will reveal.

Grinding with shrieks
the soldier’s fate.

      Dancers, Kedros editions, Athens, 2014