III
The crop of September;
rosy rinds hold up the house
among the thousand deaths
they hold it up
while the untouchable moon
passes over our dreams.
In such concern I didn’t notice
the small worm
by the spring behind the eucalyptus;
the small worm, the devil’s tool
behind the mountain
small insignificant it slid
down from the cloud to the shrub
and bit the leaf…
we lost the crop, we the ignorant
in the balcony, were foreseeing
the crop of the house,
oh Greece, the next morning
I found you changed.
