Big hands of wax

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Big hands of wax

deep in the colorless mud

and the warm aura,

half-melted in the edges,

looking like old cloths.

Big hands of wax

strive to catch me.

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No I say, no to my empty

warm tomorrow,

my sweet hemlock,

golden marble, useless.

No I say to the hands,

big as they are,

made of wax.

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I go to reach the fire

but it’s faster than me,

small as I am,

tormentingly transparent,

small,

made of air.

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Another poem translated from Greek. Did you like it? Please tell me!