SEA FLOOR
The last autumnal sun; the echo of the sea;
sound of water splashing on water. You don’t discern
one from the other. Houses tumble, ships left to rust,
fishermen feel sleepy.
We grow old, we grow old, he whispered and looked
far away to find his voice, though his voice had no
face anymore, nor he; eyelids glued onto the eyes
like limpets. Yet, the sea floor is light-blue and green —
he said — a golden zig-zag line descends, like a ladder
that you climb up.
Then someone says, good evening, to you, so simple
and unintentional and boundless, like resurrection.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 