Poem rejected by Constantine Cavafy, written in front of the youth of Motya,
Marble, 180 cm,
The poem
seeks a place
for the chess moves of my desire.
It cannot do it openly.
Spare me explanations.
The city is a burden.
Fable, apocrypha: old material
hides the thighs,
the yellow spot on the groin,
with the down.
High buzzing, if I think on it,
over the skin like that of
one-night dragonflies.
It is gauze, spun
from stony whitest stone.
From a multiply broken wing.
Against my will, I break
again the old material
with language: words
I heard in front of the bourse,
in the café, in the tar-colored
room. Picked up in old
history books. The poem
does not like decoration: plissé
betraying the curve´s
strength.
A poem is for nobody.
I send it to my friends,
the freedom to understand it
or not to understand.
On its way it has
gathered splinters of nothing,
to stand there
splendid at the end.
(translated by Andrew Shields)
EN 
MK