Embiríkos, the Avenger Rider (Varvéris)

In summer, the night nears
upon you
a sweat-soaked woman and careless.
Night like nodding off. Nodding off and nicotine.
Night, therefore, threads
a fiver fallen on Fourth Avenue,
and straight ahead, clocking one-forty-fast,
cars firmly fused it
with the asphalt.
On Heyden and Féron Streets,
nylon passengers patiently pause until their boarding
onto garbage barges.
For a moment, a fleeting fragrance floats
of orange-peelings prevails,
and you hope.
You say, now we'll make love
in lust citrus fruit-filled lands.
Then, windlessness again.
Until a divine nymphet drifts by
and she's wafer-like and chocolate-hued
and all night you're struggling
to tear open the wrapper.

Thus forgetting the fallen fiver — fine so.
The hens who hungrily hunted highways
clawing carless craters,
none escaped.

— Then you leapt forth, Andreas,
racer avenger,
with your furiously frenzied Jaguar
and scattered them to pieces.