S bílým svým kapesníkem
s tebou se rozloučím
a aby ses ke mně vrátil
vstoupím do kostela.

 
Zapálím olejovou lampu
a svíčku zhasnu
zavřu oči
a budu o tobě snít.

 
Proč jsi smutný
a nic neříkáš
ptáku putující
na vzdálený ostrov?

 
Měla jsem oba tvé rty
v páru svých vlastních
leč hvězdu v srdci
odtud si neber.

 
Dala jsem ti mušli
bys držel ji v ruce
až do dalšího léta
kdy tě opět spatřím.

 
Proč jsi smutný
a nic neříkáš
ptáku putující
na vzdálený ostrov?

 

 

 

Matouš Dvořák, Masaryk University, Czech Republic

I’ll wave a small white kerchief
And you will sail away.
In hopes of your returning
I’ll go to church and pray.

 
I’ll light a votive candle,
Then close my eyes in prayer.
Its glow will find me dreaming,
Imagining you are there.

 
Why are you sad and mournful
And utter not a word?
What far-off island holds you,
A lone and wandering bird?

 
Your two lips’ secret kisses
Were mine each night ’til morn.
But do not take my heart’s star.
Don’t leave me here forlorn.

 
I’ve gifted you a conch shell
Found lying on the shore.
Hold it until next summer
When I’ll see you once more.

 
Why are you sad and mournful
And utter not a word?
What far-off island holds you,
A lone and wandering bird?

 

 

 

Rick Newton, Kent State University, United States

Translator’s notes:

This song may be inspired by the practice of Greek island women who bid farewell to sons, husbands, and other loved ones setting out to sea. Upon leaving the shore, the women routinely go inside a church to light tapers and votive candles before icons and pray for the men’s safe return. Constantine Cavafy’s 1898 poem “Δέησις” (“Prayer”) alludes to this tradition, as does the 1968 popular song by Yannis Kakoulides (music by Yiorgos Kontoyiorgos; interpretation by Keti Homata), “Να ᾿ταν η νύχτα ξαστεριά” (“If only the stars were out tonight”).

The song’s alternate title, “Siren Song,” invites associations with the mythical half-female, half-bird creatures who lure sailors to their death with irresistible beckonings. Here, it is the forlorn woman who remains alone after her beloved, “a lone and wandering bird,” sails out of earshot. She places her hopes in the conch shell she has gifted him, with its echo of the sea, to lure him back. The image of the conch shell appears also in Gatsos’ 1960 “Ode to Athens” (Αθήνα), where he envisions himself “remaining a conch shell on the shore” (στην αμμουδιά / κοχύλι σου θα μείνω).

Since this translation aims for “singability,” I have opted in the third stanza to translate Nana Mouskouri’s variation (κρυφό της νύχτας ταίρι) since her rendition is perhaps the most widely known. To keep Gatsos’ original “παντοτινό μου ταίρι,” I would render the entire stanza: “Your two lips with their kisses / Were ever mine to own. / But do not take my heart’s star. / Don’t leave me here alone.”

Col mio fazzoletto bianco
ti saluterò
e perché tu ritorni a me
entrerò in chiesa.

 
Accenderò il lumino
e spegnerò la candela
chiuderò gli occhi
e ti sognerò.

 
Perché sei triste 
e anche tu non parli
uccello viaggiatore
in un’isola lontana?

 
Avevo le tue labbra
come eterno compagno
ma la stella del cuore
non prenderla di qua.

 
Ti ho donato una conchiglia
che tu la tenga in mano 
fino all’estate prossima
quando ti rivedrò.

 
Perché sei triste 
e anche tu non parli
uccello viaggiatore
in un’isola lontana?

 

 

 

Maria Rosa Caracausi, Palermo University, Italy