This room, how well I know it. Now they’re renting it, and the one next to it, as offices. The whole house has become an office building for agents, merchants, companies. This room, how familiar it is. Here, near the door, was the couch, a Turkish carpet in front of it. Close by, 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 big wicker chairs. Beside the window was the bed where we made love so many times. They must still be around somewhere, those old things. Beside the window was the bed; the afternoon sun fell across half of it. ...One afternoon at four o’clock we separated for a week only... And then— that week became forever.
Reprinted from C.P. CAVAFY: Collected Poems Revised Edition, translated by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard, edited by George Savidis. Translation copyright © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Princeton University Press. For reuse of these translations, please contact Princeton University Press.
The Canon