I can't see any way to come here everyday.
It's a waste of time between us.
I sit here with my thoughts, and you with yours
like a time bomb left in Hellas.
We should clash and struggle and fight,
detest each other's presence.
Then perhaps in the bloody mess
we'd find some life to lead us
beyond these pleasantries,
beyond this smiling, placid, drift of smoke
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem