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Unsatisfied Desires
« And now, the endless night. »
Nikos-Alèxis Aslànoglou
(1931-1996), The separation
It was, if my memory serves me well, O my tender child,
at Horefto, the captivating little beach at the foot of Mount Pelion.
Ah! How it rained that poignant November day!
How nature seemed gloomy enough to be in mourning,
how everything was weighed down with saturnine nostalgia!
There wasn't a soul behind the closed blinds,
not a single cafe open!
Go back? But that was no answer.
And we searched desperately, stubbornly, humbly,
with a Cyclopean determination,
angry with ourselves, broken-hearted with grief,
for a door that would finally open!
Suddenly joyful voices reached our waiting hands,
suddenly mysterious words
beat down upon our aching eyelashes!
We hurried over, opened the door where the light was, entered!
And this was the unutterable miracle!
You were there before us, my beautiful child,
smiling archangel, dazzling effigy of a Greek god
turned into light!
And we drank, side by side, laughing aloud,
unknown wines, full-bodied, sweet and cool,
rich with ruby,
tinted with the gold of satsumas, with green reflections of tidal waters,
with the brightness of amber-gold.
Wines, my unknown angel,
with the fine aroma of mint and lemons,
of wood cherries and cut apples,
of natural apricots and absinthe,
and all the innumerable fruits of the virgin forest!
Our Italian was poor,
we said a thousand bewitching little nothings,
concealing unfathomable secrets.
And an ancient abandon
spread through my blood, like a heavy autumn river
spreads its tired waters over the evening plain.
And your voluptuous velvet voice
stopped there, right in the palms of my hands,
where there still lingered traces of caresses, of childhood!
And that look, sweeter, smoother to the touch
than the vast Thessalian sky
or the powdery air of the Peloponnese,
richer than the luxury of the Aegean waves
in their opulent idleness!
You were bending towards me
like the peach tree in blossom bends its
scented branches towards spring.
And your breath of sheaves of corn
was caressing my cheek like the calyxes of a young hazel tree
brush with their humble scent
the parted lips of the ether!
It's raining in Paris!
Alone, in another cafe, my beautiful child,
dull enough to lose all hope,
I think of you, of you, my swooning angel!
I close my eyes and open my attentive ears!
And again the echoing spring of your silky voice,
like the rosy nectar of a field of poppies,
fills the thirsty irises of my eyes with its spells!
Once again distant perfumes of basil and myrtle,
of frail lupin and wild dill,
pride of the farmlands of Hellas,
break against the fires of my temples
and surround my naked poet's name
with ancient unsatisfied desires!
Athanase Vantchev de Thracy
Paris, December 2nd,
2003 – 16h35
Translated by Norton Hodges
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