As published in Volume 10, NO 4, December 2013
At the tavern, as we were drinking cognac,
you told me we had to close the bottle tightly
lest its aroma flee;
a guardian of quintessence. 
Unperturbed, contemplative
at the bottom of the swirl of things.
Subdued to the meaning of art
and the density of the moments.
In communion with Papadiamantis, Solomos and Cavafy.
The form of the shimmering vessel
drew closer and closer to them.
They were touched by the voice
their soul quivering
by the deep shudder of the initiation
to the streets of silence.
To departure, the way you built it.
A Doric, white column
by the chisel of a dexterous craftsman. 

Last Thursday,
Slowness and Kundera 
I should call…
I should say once more how you managed to throw yet another stone
into the swamp of the wheeze. 
I should say you’ve given shape
to the depths of the puberty of dreams.

You never drove a car.
The bus 
took you to Panagra
“to the silver that glistened in the afternoon…”
The entire orchard and the sea
- yours without a property deed.
By bus
you carried your adolescent gaze
leaning against the window
carving that slight smile
on the perennial face of repletion and endurance.

You always stood out without being ascetic.
You couldn’t drive.
Yet you drove your soul
beyond the foreign lairs of sumptuous affectation.
Richer than anyone else, unbeknownst to you.
You denied the roles and the change of scenery.
The bus
the intercity taxi and the phone
carried your gifts;
they strolled down the nobility
of those humble and innocent
at the edge of your untainted gaze.
At the edge of your serenity.

Translated by Despina Pirketti


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