Detested by both men and gods,
like nobles who have bitterly decayed,
the Verlaines wither; wealth remains
to them, of rich and silvery rhyme.
From the depth of good times
our loves greet us bitterly
You’re not in love, you say, and you don’t remember.
I speak of lives given to the light
of serene love, and while they flow
A sweet hour. Athens sprawls like a hetaira
offering herself to April.
Sensuous scents are in the air,
the spirit waits for nothing any more.
We are some disjointed guitars.
When the wind blows through
discordant lines and sounds awaken
in the chainlike strings that dangle.
Death is the bullies bashing
against the black walls and roof tiling,
death is the women being loved
in the course of onion peeling.
In the garden the chrysanthemums were dying
like desires when you came. Calmly
you laughed, like little white flowers.
They turn the key in the door, take out
their old, well-hidden letters,
read them quietly, then drag
their feet a final time.
With calm, indifferent brow
I'll greet the afternoons, the dawns.
A tree, I'll stand and gaze at both