Now it’s winter and I’m drinking Metaxa on a heated terrace. The night is soothing, but the heat lamp can’t take the chill off my heart; the violet light obliterating the mountain is beautiful, but it can’t erase my longing for you. What can I do? In the ocean of your absence my memories are but minnows; in the wake of your withdrawal I wander like a ghost.
Look at the austere beauty of the trees, stripped bare of their leaves! Look at the serene nobility of the citadel, aglow against the sky! Beauty, nobility—dump them in the depths of the ocean, bury them in the necropolis of dreams: There may they lie with the last of mine.