The frenzied doves are pecking at the eyes of the morning
Knocking over the dishes given as provisions for his trip
To Colonus.
The door closes behind him like the eye of a dying cyclops.
He muddles along in a warm puddle of sunny gonorrhea
And to find his road of no return he
Scatters the pebbles of the doves’ cadavers
Trampled by his sandals
Which he cannot see
translated by Natalie Feinstein



Comment early, comment often, keep it civil: