SNOW
White snow, soft like exhausted lust, he said. It fell
during the night, unexpectedly, with all its wise silence.
In the morning, the purified city shone in its whiteness.
An old water pitcher, left in the yard, resembled a statue.
He felt the sharp coldness of the ice, the immenseness
of whiteness, as if it was his personal labour; yet, for
a moment, he worried, that perhaps he had nothing warm
to freeze, that it wasn’t a victory of the snow but a neutral
peacefulness, a freedom without opponent and glory.
Embarrassed, he went to the street and soon as he saw
the snowman children had created, he went close and
placed two pieces of coal like eyes. He smiled vaguely
and played a snow fight with the kids till afternoon.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 