C. P. Cavafy
This room, how well I know it.
Now it’s rented out, it and its neighbour,
as offices. The whole house is now
offices of middlemen, and merchants, and companies.
Oh this room, how familiar it is.
Near the door here was the couch,
and in front of it a Turkish rug,
nearby, the shelf with two yellow vases.
On the right – no, opposite – a wardrobe with a mirror.
In the middle, the table where he wrote,
and the three large wicker chairs.
Beside the window was the bed
where we romanced so many times.
They’re out there somewhere, poor things.
Beside the window was the bed;
the afternoon sun would bisect it.
… At four in the afternoon, we separated
for one week only… Pity –
that week became unending.
[Written 1918; Published 1919]