LOCKED DOOR
The Saturday is bitter in the neighbourhood evening when
the street organ player turns the corner
and some music notes are left in the mud of the road
like the wet wooden shoes along the narrow pathway
between the migrant shacks.
The hours of the evening are counted by that old watch
we had placed in the chest of the dead woman with her
leftover woolen cloths. At midnight the alarm woke us up
playing its familiar rough music — it was like a child
buried alive who was hitting the sealed casket
with his small hands. When we were children the candles
with the purple ribbons and gold letters scared us a lot;
for this we were so sad when evening came because
the sun-downs, seen from the balcony of our house
in the island, looked like purple ribbons. And we were
afraid of sleep since we felt that someone locked us up and
we didn’t have keys.
And if they would forget to open for us and if we couldn’t
talk like the old woman Raken?
However we listened to the adults talking at the dining room
and a ribbon of light from the lamp had fallen under the door.
Then we weren’t afraid.
Now the mayor, they said,
went to present the keys of the city.
Don’t expect anyone to open anymore. Now you have
to take care of it alone. We have to break down the door.
We’ll manage it, because our love is stronger than
our loneliness.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 