X
Our homeland is closed in, all mountains
that day and night have the low sky as their roof.
We have no rivers, no water wells, no springs
only a few cisterns, even them empty, that echo
and which we worship.
A stagnant hollow sound, same as our loneliness
same as our love, same as our bodies.
It seems strange that once we managed to build
our houses, huts and our sheepfolds.
And our marriages, the fresh coronals and our fingers
become inexplicable enigmas to our souls.
How were our children born, how did they grow strong?
Our homeland is closed in. Two black Symplegades
enclose it. When we go down
to the harbours on Sunday to breathe freely
we see lit in the sunset
the broken ships from voyages that never ended
bodies that no longer know how to love.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 