The wall

Seferis George
And the poet lingers, looking at the stones, and asks himself
does there really exist
among these ruined lines, edges, points, hollows, and curves
does there really exist
here where one meets the path of rain, wind, and ruin
does there exist the movement of the face, shape of the
of those who’ve shrunk so strangely in our lives,
those who remained the shadow of waves and thoughts with
    the sea’s boundlessness
or perhaps no, nothing is left but the weight
the nostalgia for the weight of a living existence
there where we now remain unsubstantial, bending
like the branches of a terrible willow-tree heaped in
    permanent despair
while the yellow current slowly carries down rushes up-
    rooted in the mud
image of a form that the sentence to everlasting bitterness
    has turned to stone:
the poet a void. (...)

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