From The Kenyon Review, New Series, Winter, 1995, Vol. XVII, No. 1
Translated from modern Greek by Martin McKinsey
It’s quiet out tonight. At the window, motionless, the black swan with glittering eyes. The clock has stopped. Your fingers add up to ten. Now that’s something. But the curtain’s faded. Red reverts to gray. Friends disappear. The young dairyman got drafted. Maria got divorced. One by one the portraits of the dead are stored in the basement with the cockroaches and the rats. If, however, the woman unbraids her hair in front of the mirror, perhaps a thread of music will find its way from the other side.