Comes to Rest

It must have been one o'clock at night
or half past one.
                           A corner in a taverna,
behind the wooden partition:
except for the two of us the place completely empty.
A lamp barely gave it light.
The waiter was sleeping by the door.

No one could see us.
But anyway, we were already so worked up
we'd become incapable of caution.

Our clothes half opened - we weren't wearing much:
it was a beautiful hot July.

Delight of flesh between
half-opened clothes;
quick baring of flesh - a vision
that has crossed twenty-six years
and now comes to rest in this poetry.

Constantine P. Cavafy

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