Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | March 24, 2009


by Maria Polydouri (1902 – 1930).




I gathered roses for you

wandering about the mount;

a thousand thorns in my view,

my clasping hands in hurt abound.


I longed so much for you to pass                          5

through the icy northern wind,

holding a gift for you –alas-

tight against my bosom’s tilt.


I kept on gazing afar,

full of yearning was my heart                               10

and my eyes streaming tears.


In my craving I failed to see

the dead of night was drawing nigh;

and I cried and cried –whatever be-

me and my roses in the night.                              15

(transl. by  Evangelos Christopher Typoglou)












  1. superb.

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