You denied us eve­ry­thing, Lord, at least leave us one last conso­la­tion, give us ano­ther life, one last refuge where we can still endure the mania for things, the storms and dust of the was­te­land, the dark­ness of the sun and the light of the stars, blind fate and poe­try itself which clings to us. Like the Centaur’s tunic on Herakles’ flesh.

 

Translated from Greek by Richard Pierce