se levanta la marea en aquella esclava

acallando la furia

se apaga el fuego

de todo aquello
que ardía
en el interior

de tu caballo de madera

Nightingale so shy amid the breath of the leaves,
you who bestow music, coolness of the forest
on the broken bodies, on the souls
of those who know they will never return.
Blind voice, you who search amid darkened memory

for footsteps and gestures, I would not dare say kisses,
and the bitter, rising sea in the wild woman slave.

—George Seferis, from “Helen,” trans. from Greek by John Chioles. Illustration Credit Yeji Yun.

Paris Review

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