In The Green Church Beyond The Hill

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!