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At a touch the sulphur turns to gold,
fortune’s epiphanies again; outside, the light
is tainted, the storm slow to break
come here, earth, approach the great

lies, in the black hair of ecstasy;
give the birds to their river, keep
for yourself the coral future, or even
the animals of colour; not a lake

nor a spring is indifferent;
a lion learns to lick our toes
just the right way, at the peak

of orgasms, the season falls to its knees
for a few caresses; it’s afraid of the Spring
and the past runs to hide in your throat.

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