To Christina whom I forgot to kiss
Tomorrow Satan dies
Before he skims through his paper on the beach
- As he does every morning -
And sips a cup of coffee
But the world is bored without him
For
I have no reason
to claim that I am kinder
Than my evil friends
But
I shall whisper to my man:
‘Now you may lift your finger
And touch the swelling hidden by my jaw
Without fear
Since it is dead!
Our mothers
Lied to us
Saying it slept under our dirty nails
The day before yesterday
Christina died
Without anybody noticing
Without any woman at her funeral
Before lighting the Christmas-tree, she died
In front of the poem in an ebony frame
The Alexandrian had written about her eyes
Before fifty years.
Yes, indeed!
Women also die,
Even if they were Cafavy's friends,
Without a din,
Without sparrows striking window panes,
Without women
As they are known
To look pretty in weeds.
It suffices for us
To sit silently in Café Elite
(in Safiya Zaghlul Street)
To calculate the body's length and breadth
For a coffin fitting the man.
We are not like uncouth fishermen
Who do not care about dead bodies
And chuck fishes into baskets
Without respect for the greatness of death.
We have a decent funeral in mind
Befitting an enduring friend of humankind,
The master,
Who prepared for us a place on earth.
My father will attend,
Whom the deceased had motivated
To sit under my mother's balcony for two years,
And my mother,
Who kissed the doctor's hand
To lay a word on Omar's tongue,
And Omar,
Who built and sank Noah's Ark,
And Faust
And el-Gabalawi
And the cobbler,
Who scattered nails in our street,
Where
Elderly Greek ladies live
Near As-Sarayat Hospital
But,
I am the woman to receive condolences
As I am

His greatest sin.Constantine P. Cafavy (1863-1933), Greek poet, who spent most of his life in Alexandria.
A café in Alexandria, where Cafavy used to sit and write.
Cf.: Naguib Mahfous' novel: The Children of Gebalawi, is an allegory of world history, in which al-Gabalawi is another name for God.

Translated by Kees Nijland