Myrto Azina Chronides est née en 1961 à Nicosie, à Chypre. Depuis son jeune âge, elle écrit des essais et des poèmes. Elle a gagné plusieurs prix de littérature et de poésie quand elle était au Pancyprian Gymnasium et a publié son premier livre Hemerologion à l’âge de 15 ans. Après son diplôme, elle a fait une spécialisation de médecine générale à la clinique universitaire de Bonn à Euskirchen. Depuis 2007, elle travaille à Chypre au Département des Services de Santé. Elle a reçu d’excellentes critiques pour son style contemporain et non conventionnel ; ses nouvelles sont parues dans plusieurs magazines littéraires et dans deux anthologies nationales.
Translated by Irena Joannides
Three nights now he wouldn’t cross the threshold into the bedroom. He watched from a distance — how she had spread out her papers, piled up her books and pencils on their bed, with the window open in the dead of winter so she could see, as she would say, the moon. If he had not experienced similar situations in the past, he would have thought she had entered menopause and that the hot flashes had started. But he recognized the fire in her eyes, the gaze of a mad woman, as she would call it, and knew that hand too well — nervously moving back and forth over the paper like the needle of a sewing machine that incessantly hems a skirt. Then again, she did not invite him, nor provoke his touch. A fire was burning her body, but he was not the cause. The juices kept circulating. Black bile, blood, air, mucus, as had been recorded centuries ago by Paracelsus, starting with Hippocrates. She was poisoned by words. And there was something else — something that she did not wish to confess to him yet. Under their bed, for days now, a trapdoor had been created out of nothing. It must have been two or three days after Christmas, when they were laying in bed together and those strange cries tore the air. She jumped up, looked out the window, and exclaimed: "Oh look! Look, I tell you, some white birds are flying to the moon." And he half-raised his torso, stretched, saw the birds, and explained: "Snow geese. How strange! How did they ever get to our parts? We’re sure to get a lot of snow this winter." "I'd love to be a bird," she said. "To fly over houses, trying to reach the highest mountains. To play with the rigging of boats and roost in the tall towers of castles. And when I miss you, to turn back into a woman, in your arms." "Tree you are, moss you are...” he recited a verse by Ezra Pound to her. Rights sold to: Bulgaria: Balkani, Czech Republic: Nakladatelstvi Dauphin, Germany: Groessenwahn Verlag, Romania: Meronia, Serbia: Karpos, UK: Garnet Publishing.