I hide behind simple things, so you will find me;If you do not find me, you will find the things,You will touch what my hand has touched,You will meet the traces of our hands.
The August moon shines in the kitchenLike a tinned pot (that is why I tell you this happens)It lights up the empty house and the kneeling silenceof the house,the kneeling silence always remains.
Every word is a doorway outFor an effort often without a goalAnd then it is a true word,As it insists on an encounter.
Translated from Greek by Pilo Zyba
