a sailor on the beach

Who are you, O shipwrecked stranger?
Leontichos found your corpse on the beach,
buried you in this grave and cried thinking of his own hazardous life.
For he knows no rest:
he too roams over the sea like a gull.



on the death of a poet

They brought me word of your death,
and I wept for you remembering
how often we watched the sun
setting as we talked.

Dear Halikarnassian friend,
you lie elsewhere now
and are mere ashes;
yet your songs—your nightingales—will live,
and never will the underworld,
destroying everything,
touch them with its deadly hand.