translated by Yannis Goumas

Every night they prepare
Their quite supper
They share out the bread
They share out the wine
Everyone has his own knife

There is always some morning
When they can flee for good
From the kitchen's pong
But a gormless angel
Lays and clears the table
And a kiss on their forehead
Is enough to make saints of them

How lack-lustre is their glance
When the fruit is so red – it glints
The salad so green – it glows
When in time the shiny knives
Are covered with rust
And the honey – coloured afternoons are fewer

  Sheets of sleeplessness, Metaixmio editions, Athens, 2006