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The second translation, the Edmund Keeley/Philip Sherrard one, is really great (especially compared to the first). Even though it still has all those clumsy words (magnificent, wonderful, love) it nevertheless has that controlled, distanced cavafy tone. maybe the poem itself works b/c of the poignant absence of such clumsy things (the things we live for). only a bit of twilight remains. makes me think of the great balcony scene in camus' the stranger...

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