ROSES IN THE WINDOW The purpose of our life is not depravity. There are infinitely lovelier things than this statuesque presence of the bygone epic. The purpose of our life is our incomplete mass. The purpose of our life is the effective acceptance of our life and of our every wish in all places for all instants in every fervent sifting of things that are. The purpose of our life is the branded hide of our existence. — Andreas Embirikos, from ΥΨΙΚΑΜΙΝΟΣ (1935), tr. by C. A. Corbell

HOAX No progress. Ash everywhere. Murders everywhere. Each day brings another day and the inventory of the shoe-shiners is incrementally exhausted. A few brave followers cast off their arms and wear big umbrellas in front of milky mirrors. The young women who stayed rooted in their tracks fertilize their shadows. Two fairies gasp. A stubby man perseveres. The hairs of his head are shown to be accomplished facts. — Andreas Embirikos, from ΥΨΙΚΑΜΙΝΟΣ (1935), tr. by C. A. Corbell

WINTER GRAPES They took her toys and her lover. So she bowed her head and almost died. But her thirteen roots like her fourteen years smote with sword the elusive disaster. No one spoke. No one ran to the protective ward against the transmarine sharks who had already eyed her as a flie doth eye a diamond a land enchanted. And so this story was brusquely forgotten as by the forest ranger the lightning is forgotten in the woods. — Andreas Embirikos, from ΥΨΙΚΑΜΙΝΟΣ (1935), tr. by C. A. Corbell

DICROTON ON STEMS Very close to the citrus evenings the proud sacrificial lambs loom. They button and unbutton the velvet treasure of their belts. They sow hazelnuts capture partridges display rags of precious filament cry out for love underneath glass domes. — Andreas Embirikos, from ΥΨΙΚΑΜΙΝΟΣ (1935), tr. by C. A. Corbell