Who is the author, is it you? I can’t read modern Greek at all, but was very curious so I asked an LLM to translate this poem with the care of Robert Fagles and Stephen Mitchell. It seems well done to me insofar as it touched me, and the LLM annotated its choices which seem reasonable. I’ll note the translation below. Does it capture well the original? … You’re searching for your last cigarette in the green leaves of the chestnut tree. The stars nod to you from the sky— nightingales singing, and a Greece gone feral. A tin of balm you turn into graves with feta. A car passes, somewhere, beside a cross. A child’s memory lingers in the dusty shed that still barely stands in the corners of my childhood mind. A pomegranate tree that sprang from the earth at birth— and a glance in your eyes that I am still waiting for. I cry and remember. We hold onto your words. I write so I won’t forget your memory, Father— the day on the balcony you etched into mine. And later, you sit again in the haze of the dice, at the edge of the sea, bewitched by the nightingale’s song. I’m no songwriter— I’m a Nobody. In my eye you’ll see the birth of some kind of death. And a brother’s head resting on the father, a dog’s whimpering sigh in the lie of the village. The nightingale—still there. And a stone, a diamond, brought from Smyrna, from Grandma Maria. A grandfather in my mother’s haunted gaze, and a life worthy of one great lie. The lie is our delusion that hides the truth. And a pedestrian prose lurks between the ribs, an arbitrary stale bread in the truth of law and order. An old teacher on the edge of ugliness, and seven siblings in a row— you were cut into two. Still you refuse sleep. You light your second-to-last cigarette. Our thoughts rush fast along the moon’s path. A heavy shadow on your wall, and a silver-gold mountain beckons each of us to hand over the child’s enchanted lie. Time for sleep. I woke inside my father’s dream— in the child’s airplane, dust in the air— and a kind of honor pulsing in the lie of lenses. Time for sleep— I’m late, inside the madness of ash.

these are some thoughts-lyrics I wrote before a month because of my father's death. I was sitting at night on the balcony of my family house in a small greek rural village and was thinking. These thoughts-words-memories came like the tears. I also smoked a joint before

hmmm in general it's ok... but some lyrics are not express the correct meaning

Thank you for sharing this here. May your father rest well, and may you remember him well all your life. 🫂

Translation remains hard, thank god.