THE BEST POEMS ARE WRITTEN IN THE MORNING

When night’s blade still drips
with the blood of images,
then you can see the children clearly
playing in the middle of the square,
naked, unguarded, later vanishing
to the north —
all that you couldn’t keep near you
that you wanted so much and twisted in two
rusty pliers, to be yours for ever,
now coffee and a bit of bread and butter.

(Translated by Simon Darragh, Agenda, Greek poetry –new voices and Ancient Echoes, guest editor: David Connolly, vol.36 Nos. 3-4, spring 1999)