WHAT TIME IS IT?
Two eucalyptus trees in the sky. The edge of a roof,
red tiles
a wooden staircase and the cloths on the cloths line. The sky
painted light-blue
and the old silence with its sack, thousands of cigarette butts
in my memory,
bitter taste. You have no appetite, you wait for the moon
to rise, slowly, silently like the cat’s walk on the ledge
of the afternoon.
The curtain, smoked from the tiredness of the day,
is pulled aside upon the horizon, not too far from
the inn with the four horses — the dusk
fades on their backs,
not far from the last shack in the distance of the autumn
suburb.
The voices of children fade away behind the fence walls
and the walking stick of time, tick-tack is heard
down there by the seashore.
A stopped truck turned on its lights,
then the window
then another one.
The angels look at the evening with both hands
under their chins.
Ah, how far away we empty our tired hopeful
glances
those oil paintings onto the evening clouds with
the slanting lights
almost no shape, only a puffy dawn that falls off
the dream;
a table with two wine glasses at the seashore tavern,
a lone chair with its lonely shadow,
your shadow with nothing else in the damp seashore
and the dog of the ship among the stars.
Simply, deep in your heart, you don’t remember
the soft steps in the street, the open window —
Then, isn’t he gone? He isn’t gone.
Serene rhythm, heartbeat of a bird —
go to sleep, the breath of a sea soul, go to sleep;
quietly, quietly this rhythm pulls your heart
like the rocking of the moored boat
that is pushed softly by the two fingers
of the moon, the watery moon. Good night.
When the shadows of the clouds will pass,
with big strides, over the city
when the great message of the winds will return,
when the trees will chase their shadow in the sky
sharing with the clouds the rags of a wild tempest
when the dresses of women get glued on their legs
and the wind with the ripped landscape will carry on
behind them
the cyclamens will poke up through schisms of the rocks
and the mouth of the night will be muffled by the water
of forgetfulness and the patched autumn overcoat will
show its square patches on the elbows and the lapels —
ah, at that time many carts loaded with baskets and hay
will roll down the damp road,
straight from the spring villages, straight from
the carefree of the plains
and the oil lamps will light all their memories
over the open books, over the crossed arms.
You’ll have your voice hidden in your pockets
like crumbs of our old bread, the ants hide in their earthly
homes
you’ll still have something to feed the mouth of the damp
evening star.
You, my friend, you come back when the countryside
is deserted
every time the vacationers with their suitcases wait
at the quay
and the evenings are sitting all alone in the square of
the island
a long line of empty chairs turned upside on
the round tables where loneliness dines raising
its veil a little,
and the garden benches left in the rain, my good friend
my beloved friend
your silent unshaven face
your faithful arm
behind your strong shoulders
the roar of the gale —
how warm is your hand!
You’re here near me. Good evening.
The lonely moon — look — like a silver plate,
like a plate full of leftovers at the small restaurant
of sorrow when the travellers are gone and
you hear the far away whistle of the ship under
the night rooms.
The gale behind your back; we can wait.
We know. We’re ready.
This evening ties us together with its silence.
We’ll talk tomorrow. These ropes that tied big ships,
our necks and our years, make a good scaffold.
The sky
has known of us before we knew each other, before
we separated, before the handkerchief was waved
from the deck.
Have you noticed? The weather has cleared up. A ripped
cloud gets angry at the moon.
The hotel manager undresses behind the window.
What time is it?
And on top of the platform of the old summer with
the exiled flags
you, my good friend, you light the cigarettes
of the stars, you tie our handkerchiefs –flags
on the wet wire, these handkerchiefs that we used
to wipe our foreheads and our eyes.
You’ll never leave. You’ll never leave us. Your hand,
your faithful hand which raises the shadows above our eyes
so we’ll see the dawn again between two burnt out candles.
Good morning.
The children are coming. The sun pushes doors with its
shoulders. The doors open. Sky.
Eyes meet eyes. The world is enlarged. The white
ship.
Soon it’ll be sunny; daisies and whitewashed dreams
and a flag on the highest mast of high noon
will flutter in the sea breeze. Good morning.
Good morning.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 