"Wind of the Virgin" – Elytis, Happy August 15th!!

"Wind of the Virgin", poem O. Elytis – "Wind of the All-Holy", poem d’ Elytis. Because the Virgin Mary is worshiped and honored as much as any Saint everywhere on earth……

One of the most famous, essential and prophetic poets of our time, with international reputation, Nobel Prize, important for the whole world and translated into almost all languages, our greatest lyricist Odysseas Elytis, love to be constantly mentioned and to return generously to all his poetic collections in the motif of Mary and the Virgin.

In a sea palm you tasted the bitter pebbles

Two o'clock in the morning wandering the desert August

You saw the moonlight walking with you

Step lost. Or if the heart was not in place

It was the memory of the earth with the beautiful woman

The wish he longed for through the peaks of the basil

Let the wind of the Virgin blow it!

Night time! And the north flooded with tears

The heart just pounded to the ground

Naked under the constellations of her silent trees

You tasted the bitter pebbles at the bottom of the dream

At the time when the clouds untied the sails

And without sin any of the sin was engraved

The weather in his first guts. You can still see

Before the initial fire the beauty of the sand

Where you played your oath and where you had the wish

One hundred leaves open in the wind of the Virgin Mary!

Wind of the All-Holy

In a palm of the sea you tasted the acrid gravel, At two in the morning, strolling in the desert August You saw the light of the moon walking with you, Lost march. Or, if the heart was out of place, There was the memory of the earth, with the beautiful woman, The wish that desired that from the bosom of the basil Blows the wind of the All-Holy.

Night time ! And the north wind brimming with tears As soon as my heart shuddered, to the firming of the earth, Naked, under the constellations of silent trees

You have tasted the acres of gravel in the depths of a dream At a time when the clouds have hoisted the sails, And without any mea culpa has etched Time in its primitive bowels. You can still see, Before the first fire, the beauty of the sand Where you played your oath and where you had the blessing With the hundred petals in the wind of the All-Holy.