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Above all the straightness that doesn’t come to bits.
There is nothing white
About the wintry landscape
Snow-white are only the masks
and whatever tries to convince
about the unexplored synod
of the gods.

Silence and inertia
No curve
Firm the boles
Secure the branches
Nothing is more depressing than
the snow’s subterranean wobbling, the unstable line
– the metal is also tragic –
(this has no continuance or coherence only
a picture that attracts, fruition).

Who will dare repeat the incision
Made with a steady hand?
In the night in the moaning night
the unavailing landscape hangs
on the puppet’s sorrow
the voice is not repeated that
promises the mercy of loss.

Veroniki Dalakoura
Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas