The North Wind

This pianist's fingernails
reach all the way to the floor
only the north wind knows his name
he doesn't play the piano anymore
doesn't eat
doesn't love
doesn't sleep

He is king

Down below the carpenter is nailing wood
when suddenly the piano sounds again
in the shadow of a huge frozen sun
the carpenter's beautiful daughter
is scrubbing the flagstones of the north wind
who alone knows
who alone knows how to love
the poets the
true poets

-Miltos Sachtouris, from "Poems (1945-1971)" translated by Karen Emmerich