My wife whose long stressed face
was rescued from El Greco’s canvases
and whose body is a bursting sail
strolls on the ocean.
Her eyes are waves of sadness.
She rests her fingers on your brows.
When she departs
you miss her scorched footprints
you are awake
and all seems unbearable.
My wife conceals
El Greco’s sketches of faces…
Harutiun Berberian
Translated by Tatul Sonentz
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