I’m sorry that you are so good
without a shade of memory on your comb
or fate’s wrinkle on your palms.
You resemble a god’s lot
who walks slowly along a river
and the storks quietly contemplate.
I’m chary of people touching you:
the stream is deep, of blue stone
and loneliness has silvery fingers
that weave useless cloth and hear
one voice crying “mercy” to the other,
the legs, deer of glass rooted to the spot
and the echo drifting in a forest of rain.
I’m sorry that my entire soul culminates
in the azure phonemes of your face
and secretly leaps imprisoned.
Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas
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