Is the surrounding by silence
Of a low land
Whose still-insatiable age
Lies deeply in wait
—Against the attraction of another planet—
There where the older works sank
Into its body And those works Isolated dangers from other eras
The column drums—white—resemble
Plumeless birdheads
Like broken halves of other animals’ skulls
That if you find them remind you
Of shards of old limestone carvings
Though you won’t find birdbones on these rocky shores
They must dissolve quickly
Since eating them when they’re small
They even melt in your mouth.
The flavors are strange and linger
Exciting the spots on the sun.

*From Diary of Age (“Ημερολόγιο της Ηλικίας”)

**English translation: Karen Emmerich