Cavafy’s soul is barely contained by the dam of reason. It escapes in spurts of ink. Urgency, despair, enormous guilt and anger. A tortured man seeking oblivion from himself. Time and society are his jailors. Secretly written words his only escape. A rose blooms. Petals upon petals unfold, and one a waits the time when there are no more. But there is no taking your eyes from the process. It is like peeking through a hole in the wall, watching a man undress his soul.
