where my body lay in childhood
My Zacynthus, who look into the waves
of the Greek sea, where Venus was born
making those islands bloom
with her first smile; so that
the limpid clouds and leafy fronds will not be passed over
by the glorious verse of him who sang
of fatal seas, and the diverse exiles
who, great in fame and sorrow
kissed his own rocky Ithaca – Ulysses.
You will have nothing of your son but his song,
motherland of mine: our fate already
written, an unwept burial.