Hesiod

The farmer poet prepares the night mass
sharpens his nose, clears his throat.

Follow him if you can, bend your ears.
The ice will shortly embrace the evening

and there will no longer be a good way for us.
We won’t escape this misfortune anywhere.

You would like to cry but the tears
are checked on your bronze skin.

You’re sad I know, only anguish
barks in you. Hold tighter to all that dark,

don’t let yourself go. It will end
in memories and silence, in a few lines.