In the green church beyond the hill,
Where the willows dropped their rosaries,
I commemorate with the prosphora
Of juvenile spring the tales of youth.
And you, bowing down
In front of me, stand invisibly,
The silks of lowered eyelashes
Make the wings of cherubim flap.
Your white fate is not marred
By your hardened time,
The same pink handkerchief
Tied with a swarthy hand.
The same sigh stiffly pressing
On your cracked shoulders
Over that who lives beyond the sea
And who is farther away from home.
And more ponderous is the memory
Of day against the comely face of life.
O, pray for me as well,
Homeless in the motherland!