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Miniature, by Yannis Ritsos
The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea like yellow wheels for a very small carriage made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her. He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles, throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed. The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea. Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage? To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain, with its little yellow wheels of lemon parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps, and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?
(trans. Edmund Keeley)

Miniature, by Yannis Ritsos

The woman stood up in front of the table. Her sad hands
begin to cut thin slices of lemon for tea
like yellow wheels for a very small carriage
made for a child’s fairy tale. The young officer sitting opposite
is buried in the old armchair. He doesn’t look at her.
He lights up his cigarette. His hand holding the match trembles,
throwing light on his tender chin and the teacup’s handle. The clock
holds its heartbeat for a moment. Something has been postponed.
The moment has gone. It’s too late now. Let’s drink our tea.
Is it possible, then, for death to come in that kind of carriage?
To pass by and go away? And only this carriage to remain,
with its little yellow wheels of lemon
parked for so many years on a side street with unlit lamps,
and then a small song, a little mist, and then nothing?

(trans. Edmund Keeley)

Posted on May 1st, 2013
110 notes
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  16. natescuriosities reblogged this from poetsorg and added:
    Love the image. It’s right there in the lemon but I never noticed
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