Ancient Hill

Yannis Ritsos

We passed the street with the eucalyptus. We climbed
the hill of thorns. All our things
exposed to the sun, more silent, more hidden,
open tombs, marble lions, stones,
the feeling within the voice: "I'll go back"
"Where will you go?" said another. The old man
pinned a thorn through his lapel. And, in no hurry,
on the asphalt road below, five semi trucks set off,
transporting large wooden boxes, filled with
golden masks, clay figurines, and urns.

April 2, 1972
Mycene

from Muted Poems [Collected Poems IA' -- pg 24]