The myriad choices of his fateSet themselves out upon a plateFor him to chooseWhat had he to lose
Something gets lost when you translate. It's hard to keep straight. Perspective is every thing.
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Something gets lost when you translate. It's hard to keep straight. Perspective is every thing.
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As long as music survives, poetry will never die.
I heard the voice of that bird, son of Polypas, whose piercing outcryand whose arrival announces to men the season when fieldsare plowed, and the voice of her broke the heart that darkens within me,since other men posess my flourishing acres now,and not for me are the mules dragging the plow through the grainland,since I have given my heart to the restless seafarer's life.
A song and a smile from someone I cared about could be enough to distract me from all that darkness, if only for a little while.