One monotonous day is followed
by another monotonous, identical day. The same
things will happen, they will happen again —
the same moments find us and leave us.
A month passes and ushers in another month.
One easily guesses the coming events;
they are the boring ones of yesterday.
And the morrow ends up not resembling a morrow anymore.
Constantine P. Cavafy (1908)
poetry loses its essence in any translation…Â