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| Κ.Π.Καβάφης: Επιμέλεια Κώστας Βούλγαρης, εφημερίδα Αυγή, τχ. 26, 13/4/2003 |
SHELVES WARPED AND DUSTY
Shelves warped
and dusty
and from their dust’s seclusion stand up
olden books, their spines bent,
and in them, among their so many words
once written with a quiver of emotion
and now ingloriously cooped up and resting,
in this paper cemetery,
untouched lines of ideas and piles of ideals ignored.
In the remnants of loved ones,
in the faint traces -those still enduring-
of overwhelming feelings once inspiring
and now expired, in the outflow of poeticized passions,
those that didn’t fit anywhere
and now arrayed
they age calmly leaning against each other
and in the lines of words on the inner pages
where they stand and moulder unread
their later years, within so many things
and even more in their oblivion’s exile,
they rise alone and walk
the old-timers of silence and as they place
all their weight on their steps
and the shelves reverberate with sorrow,
instead of spring bringing beauties hither,
it looks for them and takes them back.
O how many pages are irrevocably erased,
desert-coloured blank pages
along with the pleasures they kept,
the beauty which again they relieve,
the bodies which throbbed embraced in words
and spoke to so many
with yet a few still able to touch them
and perhaps lie down with one,
of their sweetness, if they’ve any left,
a wee bit remains and this vanishes,
as they vanish, along with pages erased.
and from their dust’s seclusion stand up
olden books, their spines bent,
and in them, among their so many words
once written with a quiver of emotion
and now ingloriously cooped up and resting,
in this paper cemetery,
untouched lines of ideas and piles of ideals ignored.
In the remnants of loved ones,
in the faint traces -those still enduring-
of overwhelming feelings once inspiring
and now expired, in the outflow of poeticized passions,
those that didn’t fit anywhere
and now arrayed
they age calmly leaning against each other
and in the lines of words on the inner pages
where they stand and moulder unread
their later years, within so many things
and even more in their oblivion’s exile,
they rise alone and walk
the old-timers of silence and as they place
all their weight on their steps
and the shelves reverberate with sorrow,
instead of spring bringing beauties hither,
it looks for them and takes them back.
O how many pages are irrevocably erased,
desert-coloured blank pages
along with the pleasures they kept,
the beauty which again they relieve,
the bodies which throbbed embraced in words
and spoke to so many
with yet a few still able to touch them
and perhaps lie down with one,
of their sweetness, if they’ve any left,
a wee bit remains and this vanishes,
as they vanish, along with pages erased.
Yórgos Panayotídis
translated by Yannis Goumas
translated by Yannis Goumas
