The days of the future stand before us like a row of little lighted candles

Candles

C.P. Cavafy

The days of the future stand before us

like a row of little lighted candles—

golden, warm, and vibrant little candles.

The days that have gone by remain behind us,

a melancholy line of candles now snuffed out;

the closest still give off their smoke,

cold candles, melted down, bent out of shape.

I don’t want to see them; their appearance saddens me,

and I’m saddened, too, to recall their former light.

I look in front of me, at my lighted candles.

I don’t want to turn around lest I see and tremble at

how quickly the darkened line is growing longer,

how quickly the snuffed-out candles multiply.