Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Oblation by Kostas Karyotakis

Silver was the forehead. And beautiful
your eyes in blue they glowed.
As you were opening the piano
two new roses in the vases trembled
but now blooms were your temples beautiful.

Your hands were struggling, winning;
the buttons were retreating; the notes,
the melody as a trophy they gave.
We listened. And the feelings, captors
that their freedom were winning.

I don't remember well, it's been years,
but you had I say and sing;
except as if the nightingales trill.
Loud or silent your lip is a spring,
tired deers are my years.

The butterfly will always fly
leaving the pollen on the fingers.
A rustle as goodbye, your hand silk,
and you were gone. From the window
the butterfly will always fly…

Translated from Greek by yours truly.

The image was taken from here

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