5
Oh Lord, I’m tired of talking, fastened with wires
in the urn and
I surrendered myself without being asked; and only
the dead can endure such plentiful of things since
they don’t need them anymore coughing spitefully
with a brown overcoat like untie Helen’s trains; at
night we heard the fire engines running at high speed;
many were hooked onto so simple things and died
with no one’s help, others were beheaded as they
bent down to find their shoes. In fact I was concerned
for a whole year, for a poor salt shaker, black from dirt
or the negative feelings, “what can we do Heliousa”
I said and put a shawl on my shoulders as if no murder
ever took place here, so much alone that I could resist
the urge to take out of my pockets four or twelve
carriages, so unknown that they could find me
and take them away.
Trucks loaded with convicts shook the bridge as
they passed, forgotten events stood at the corner
like the one eyed people outside the pharmacy.
Who betrayed? Who climbed up on the bus hastily?
Who didn’t forget?
All are mixed up and only the rooster, each morning,
knows of the destruction that commences and when
they call me I simply and spitefully turn up perpetuating
their illusion.
I remember, one night, as I walked in the deserted
streets, of course everything ended up at the police
precinct, despite all the cold, since when I went in
the ill-tempered restaurant to have a warm soup, when
time came to pay I took out of my pocket mother’s
empty spool and the wretched people still owed me
some change.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 