Panayiotis Konstantakopoulos / Παναγιώτης Κωνσταντακόπουλος

All the years I was away
you know I turned about for you;
I was searching to find the rose
that no one else
would be able to give you. . .
what mountains, what deserts
what seas I crossed
what rains grooved my forehead
what saltwater tormented me
no one will learn of it

I squeezed out my heart
into a holy chalice,
and inside it grew
a beautiful rose, the pure one
like the half-lights of Easter dawn;
put it into the binding of your bosom
or in your hair; it will suit you
as it suits each morning
the world, the sun, it will suit you.

(translation: Eva Johanos)

I will leave for the high mountain, to the well-rooted stone
I will make my bed near the source of the spring
and lay down, there, my bitterness, that it may melt like the snow.
Don’t ask me, good eagle of mine, don’t examine me, my sun!
Don’t grab onto my shoulders and turn me around,
wind!

My little moon!
My good friend!
My morning star!
Shine some light on the ravine!
Help me to come up the mountain!
Throw some clouds on the road so that I will not turn back!

Ι carry weights on my back, the hands of the dead;
On one side I have dreams, and on the other side hopes
And between the two sides the bloody crown. .
Don’t ask me, good eagle of mine, don’t examine me, my sun!
Don’t grab onto my shoulders and turn me around,
wind!

(translation: Eva Johanos)

Φέρνω ζαλιά στις πλάτες μου, τα χέρια των νεκρών
Στη μια μεριά έχω τα όνειρα, στην άλλη τις ελπίδες
Κι’ ανάμεσα στις δυό ζαλιές το ματωμένο στέφανο
Μὴ μὲ ρωτᾷς καλέ μου ἀϊτέ, μὴ μὲ ξετάζεις ἥλιέ μου!
Μὴν πιάνεσαι ἀπ᾿ τοὺς ὤμους μου καὶ με γυρίζεις
ἄνεμε!