
TIME
The fireball of dusk just behind our backs;
evening mess: 7:00 o’clock
The sundown on the face of the police sergeant
sundown on the shaven heads of the exiled
and far down the sea.
4th battalion of Makronisos
12 sections
10,000 exiled
Sundown.
Each man has the tiredness of twelve
hours full of stones on his shoulders
the thirst of 12 hours in the sun
the pain of many years
the resolve of a whole life
even this small bag
with the colourful spools of dusk.
Our shoes got ripped by the stones
our shirts blackened in the sweat and dust
occasionally the sea shyly enters through
the cracks of bitterness.
Evening sits on our shoes
like a loyal black dog
as we mend our socks
as we mend hope with a star.
When we fall asleep, the night donkeys saunter
outside our tents
many blessed eyes spread their oil in the air
the quiet donkeys of the night
hanging tiny landscapes of wheat ears
small orchards with broad beans, celery, dill
a water well, a light green house, a woman
who combs her hair.
The night donkeys graze in the quietness.
Ah mother, how hard are the days we pass
how’s sleep in the house, mother, with
the tidied chairs around the table, wise chairs
and patient like good neighbour women
when your shadow rests under the door frame
expelling evil and the fear of darkness
as you scare away a mosquito that buzzed
over our sleepy face.
We pass difficult days, mother. Don’t grief.
The struggle is tough, mother,
but there are thousands of brothers
they are all your sons, mother.
We hear your shadow going away each morning
we hear the small windows closing.
A gunshot in the air
the cop’s whistle
a gunshot that kills
the morning star cuckoo.
The night donkeys leave slowly
behind the white fence of dawn
only their shadow leaves a lake of silence
between the two first words of the wind.
Then the big rock on the shoulder
the great uphill
the great resolve in our heart.
Great days await us, mother.
With the big rocks on our shoulders
climbing up death
we shall build big cities.
Mother, don’t grieve.