Dancing girl

Closed shops. Flour spilt upon the pavement.
   Sandbags heaped by the shelter. Hands folded,
sad, he sits behind the garden's gate. A mob
of swallows flies over, their shadows crossing
his face. He bends over and gathers flowers.
He makes a wreath. Will he put it on?

Yannis Ritsos          
from Correspondences (1987) [pg 11]       
 (translated by Scott King)


Kindly, quietly
he departs,
 gives up his place—
 a place that belongs
  to his statue
with closed lips
with open arms. 

     from Clay (1980) [Collected Poems: IDelta ---pg 92]
     (translated by Scott King)
          Yannis Ritsos    


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...η μελέτη του σώματος δίνει την αίσθηση ανείπωτης περιπλοκής...
Φρ. Νιτσε