Читать книгу The Complete Poems of C.P. Cavafy - Daniel Mendelsohn, Daniel Mendelsohn - Страница 27

He’s lost his former dash, his pluck.

His wearied body, very nearly sick,

will henceforth be his chief concern. The days

that he has left, he’ll spend without a care. Or so says

Philip, at least. Tonight he’ll play at dice.

He has an urge to enjoy himself. Do place

lots of roses on the table. And what if

Antiochus at Magnesia came to grief?

They say his glorious army lies mostly ruined.

Perhaps they’ve overstated: it can’t all be true.

Let’s hope not. For though they were the enemy, they were kin to us.

Still, one “let’s hope not” is enough. Perhaps too much.

Philip, of course, won’t postpone the celebration.

However much his life has become one great exhaustion

a boon remains: he hasn’t lost a single memory.

He remembers how they mourned in Syria, the agony

they felt, when Macedonia their motherland was smashed to bits.—

Let the feast begin. Slaves: the music, the lights!

[1913; 1916]