Amorgos, Part 6

Nikos Gatsos

 

6

How much I loved you only I know

I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades

and covered you with the mane of the moon and we danced in the

summer fields

on the stubble and we ate together the mown clover

the great dark sea with so many pebbles around your throat so many

colored stones in your hair.

A boat comes into shore a rusted windlass creaks

a column of blue smoke in the rose of the horizon

like the lacerating wing of the crane

armies of swallows wait to welcome the brave

bare arms with anchors tattooed on their shoulders wave

the cries of children jumble with the babbling of the west wind

bees fly in and out about the nostrils of the herds

Kalamatan silks flutter

and a distant bell streaks the sky indigo

like the voice of a simandron travelling through the stars

So many eons fled

from the soul of the Goths from the domes of Baltimore

from the great monastery of lost Agia Sophia.

But on the high mountains who are those who watch

with motionless eye and serene face?

That dust in the air the echo of what burning?

Isn't it Kalyvas fighting, or Leventoyannis?

Perhaps the Germans have attacked the Maniotes, unarmed?

Neither Kalyvas fights nor Leventoyannis,

Nor have the Germans attacked the Maniotes, unarmed.

Silent towers are watching a haunted princess

peaks of cypresses companion a dead anemone

quiet shepherds play their morning songs on a linden flute

a mindless hunter fires a musket at doves

and an old forgotten windmill

with a needle of dolphin sews its disintegrating sails

and with a fair northwest wind comes down the slopes

as Adonis came down the path to say a "Good evening!" to Golfo.

Year after year I wrestled with ink and mallet my tormented heart

with gold and fire to make you an embroidery

a hyacinth from the orange tree

a flowering quince to comfort you

I who once touched you with the eyes of the Pleiades

and covered you with the mane of the moon and we danced in the

summer fields

on the stubble and we ate together the mown clover

great dark loneliness with so many pebbles around your throat so many

colored stones in your hair.

Trans. DGW.   
For the complete Amorgos, and the Greek text.