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 Some poets write moved by their bitterness, esteeming only the passion of a tender heart.
 That’s how I learned that Cortez was one of the most forlorn poets, because when he captured Chamboara he ordered the destruction of all the graven images people loved.  Then, weeping, he fell into the arms of a woman he loved, without knowing that she belonged – yes! – to a divine race.
 But let myths be.  Let us open our palms and look at the lines of festivity or the eve of a sorrow.  Let us walk with the humble look that befits the students of love and those who know how to distinguish the oncoming passion.  This winter will be full of clarions, coloured like our palms that have travelled.

Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas