WARMTH
Evening has come. We haven’t heard the voice of the yogurt
seller in a while.
The clouds rise on the horizon — lots of clouds like the empty
baskets of the fruit sellers stacked on the side of the quay
when winter comes — they hide the sea. The sun isn’t enough
even when it shines all day.
Then what are we waiting for in the dark room? Where would
the little chain you wore on your neck be? The one
that resembled a gold little line written by the finger
of the spring dusk in the bell tower of the rural church?
It’s not something important — as if we lost a beloved letter
we wanted to read again;
we bring it back to our minds, phrase after phrase,
it’s not the words, perhaps we could have written it better,
it’s like that little chain on your neck that I miss.
We’ve been deprived of many things. A lot of things. Even
memories that fade away like little fires, like mother’s
jewellery
behind the glass windows of the pawn shop fogged up
by the autumn light
touching the window with our noses and looking inside all
Saturday afternoon. What are we waiting for?
The clouds kneel over the mountains and if the moon appears
it’d look like the empty dish
we found next to the dead man. He remained in the next room
for two days.
Luckily the lorry of the municipality passed; we wrapped
him in his blanket.
We don’t know where they buried our father. If we had some
oil we could light the oil lamp. That’s okay, though. It’s better.
Darkness helps. The faces of the alive and those of the
dead look like darkness. We won’t notice the little chain
missing from your neck. It’s better.
Do you remember that morning? A foreign ship was entering
the harbour.
The foreign captain on the bridge took off his hat and waved
to the Greek fishing boats, our cruising boats which sailed off
to Salamina, Paros and Aegina.
We waved too; we spelled the foreign language letters
on the wide side of the ship as if we read the word
I love you
in our first love letter. We waved with both hands.
The world is so nice, my love. The ship must had been from
Holland, we could say that the world was ours.
The light-blue hat of the captain was like a spring moon
washed up by all the seas. And his binoculars must had been
on the table of the cabin.
All the small round landscapes were sleeping in the binoculars;
landscapes from around the world, like engraved gold coins
you could use to buy bread for your house, candy for the children
and for you a straw hat with flowers and cherries so the sun
wouldn’t ravage your delicate face.
Truly, how is that captain doing? Would he be sleeping
in the water
with his hat in his hands looking like a dead jellyfish?
Since then we haven’t gone down to the sea again.
The harbour was bombed. Nothing remained standing.
Only, they said, a boat plank that had written on it
I love you was floating in the rough seas. Your hands
are freezing. Are you cold?
Perhaps that captain is not sleeping in the water and surely
our glances must have been saved in his binoculars, like
sunlit landscapes of a Greek summer. They could warm him.
He wouldn’t be cold.
Come, then, wipe your eyes. When one sees the world like
that, warmly, I tell you, he will never feel cold. Your hands
got warmer.
The moon has risen from among the clouds — it greets us
like the captain’s hat. What you see and you’re smiling?
The sky cleared up; a piece of it lights the window —
youngish sky gleaming
like the new soldier’s head shaven by the barber.
When we all had the first army hair cut we were all alike —
that saddened us
you couldn’t tell one from the other, only Petros was different
with his clear laughter — his teeth shined like the almonds
mother used to make sweets at Christmas time and the rooms
smelled of vanilla and rose water. We all look alike tonight,
in the autumn sky.
We all look alike before death tonight.
A star jumps from glance to glance as the sparrow
jumps from one snowed branch to the other.
We all look alike before hope, comrade. Morning will come
when I’ll hold your hand and both our hands will get warm.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 