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This is what I see from the window, the eaves blackened by the shadows of birds that haven’t stopped divining.  A hazy horizon, a noisy atmosphere because of the music.  The sister goes through the hotel’s corridors with a whisper that sounds like a cry.  From the balcony is seen whatever is extremely useful.  I observe the body lying on the marble table, I don’t talk to the person and the sweet mouth that asks questions, everything is past time for it exists.  Still, I fly over the divine machine.  It brings something from down there: Bolivar to the Acropolis.  Land.  Witchcraft. 
Someone’s behind the door.  Can you hear?
I haven’t touched you but your news
– I’m getting married! – is a stab
Unto the firmament.
Write on the moist windowpane: Dead.
This word has no gender, no number.
Dead are all those who stay at Love’s hotel.
What is left, Eros?
Struggle naked on the jagged stones.

Veroniki Dalakoura
Translated from the Greek by Yannis Goumas