Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
In a deliberate journey,
I took my way to her through fourfold seasons,
hoping I might find her awaiting me:
The sweetest of the poems.
I traversed Spring,
lingering long in outset contemplations,
though it revealed not to me
even a bud of its opening verse.
I attempted again,
touching it more than I should,
but its hand bore not her fragrance,
despite the diversity of flowers.
“Perhaps in the thunder’s roar, she will burst,
Or within showers of hail she takes shape,”
I said it, as Summer stretched vast before me
pouring down without her sent-down grace.
She was not there,
even in a droplet beaded on a leaf
caressed by a slight breeze
before it fades to nothing.
“Maybe from a stark, lifeless void,
she will emerge in a season yet to be,”
I beguiled myself with such wishful thinking,
oblivious to how Winter speaks to me of itself:
in the nakedness of trees,
in the pallid face of the earth
in the hue-lacking, wasteland.
I pursued the last of all seasons,
sifting through withered leaves
beneath the shadow of dusk,
I whispered to me:
“I shall not bring my journey to an end
until I reach its opening verse.”
Then, after awhile, I turned my sight skyward,
meditating upon Almighty’s vast dominion
amid a long night of sleepless stars,
and thus she descended
in full-harmonious symmetry:
The sweetest of the poems.
