Allow the little girl to be queen,to open and close windows as if in a ritualrespected by guests, servants, faraway spectators.And yet she, she, the little girl—if she is neglected for only one moment,she feels lost forever;ah, not upon motionless islandsbut upon the terror of not being,the wind streams,the divine windthat brings not healing, but ever more sickness;and you seek to stop her, she who would turn back,“La presenza” (ακόμα ένα ποιήμα γραμμένο για την Κάλλας) there isn’t a day, an hour, an instantin which this desperate effort can cease;you cling to almost anything,begetting the desire to kiss you.
