The Cistern
For George Apostolidis
I felt the need to present the hospital of Don Juan Tavera in the form of a model because it not only nearly covered the gate of Visagra, but because also its dome rose in such a way so that it dominated the city; and since I presented it as a model and I moved it from its place it seemed preferable to show its façade rather its other sides. As for its position in the city that is apparent on the map.
~DOMENIKOS THEOTOKOPOULOS
Here, in the earth, a cistern has taken root
lair of secret water that becomes rich.
Its roof resounding footsteps. The stars
don’t mix with its heart. Each day
grows, opens and shuts, doesn’t touch it.
The world above opens like a fan
and plays with the wind’s blow
in a rhythm that dies down at dusk
hopelessly flaps its wings and throbs
at the whistle of the destined suffering.
At the dome’s apex of the merciless night
worries step on and joys pass by
with the fate’s hastened rattle
faces light up, gleam for a moment
and die out in an ebony darkness.
Faces that leave! The eyes in bunches
roll in a gutter of bitterness
and signs of the great day
take them up and bring them closer
to the black earth that asks no ransom.
Man’s body leans on earth
so that the thirsty love remains
the statue turns into marble at the touch
of time and falls naked on the rough
bosom that slowly sweetens it.
The thirst of love looks for tears
the roses bow—our soul—
the pulse of nature is heard in the leaves
the twilight nears like a wayfarer
then the night and then the grave…
But here, in the earth, a cistern took roots
secret lair, warm, that grows rich
the groan of every body in the air
the battle against the day and night
the world multiplies, goes by, doesn’t touch it.
Hours go by, suns and moons
but the water has turned into a mirror
an expectation with wide open eyes
when all the sails sink
at the seashore that nourishes it.
Alone, and in its heart so many people
alone, and in its heart such anguish
and such pain, drop by drop alone
casting its net far into the world
that lives with a bitter undulation.
As the wave started out of the embrace
would that it died in the embrace
would that it gave us love on the shore
before it broke its line to give us
the wave, as it remained foam on the sand.
A warmth spread like a pelt
tame like a sleeping beast
that calmly escaped fear
and knocked on sleep to beg for
the orchard where silver drips.
And a hidden body, deep cry
springing out of death’s cave
like lively water in a ditch
like water shining on grass
and alone talking to the black roots…
O closer to the root of our life
than our thoughts and our worries!
O closer than our stern brother
who sees us through his closed eyelids
and than the spear still by our sides!
O if the skin of silence that confines us
would only soften at our touch
that we might forget, gods, the crime
that slowly grows and makes us heavy
that we might escape knowledge and hunger!
Gathering the pain of our wound
that we may escape the pain of our wound
gathering the bitterness of our bodies
that we may escape our bodies’ bitterness
that roses may bloom in the blood of our wound.
That everything may become new
on fingers, eyes, lips
that may we get rid of old sickness
like a shirt shed by serpents
yellow amid the green clover.
Great and immaculate love, serenity!
In the lively warmth one evening
you humbly bent, naked contour
white wing over the flock
like a soft palm on the temple.
The pelagos that brought you, took you away
to the bloomed lemon trees
now that the fates have woken lovingly
thousand faces with three simple wrinkles
placed to escort the epitaph.
The myrrh bearers wail their dirges
that people’s hope may follow
wedged in the eyes by flames
lighting the blind soil
sweating from the spring’s anguish.
Flames of the beyond world, fishing lamps
over the spring that charges forth today
sorrowful shadows on dead wreaths
footsteps…footsteps…the slow bell
unwinds a dark chain—
“We are dying! Our gods are dying!…”
The marble statues know it, looking down
like a white dawn over the victim
alien, filled eyelids, fragments
as the crowds of death pass by.
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They passed by at a distance with their grief
warm, close to the low church candles
that had written on their bowed foreheads
the jubilant life of high-noon
when magic and stars vanish.
But night does not believe in dawn
and love lives weaving death
so that, like the free soul
a cistern teaches silence
in the conflagrated city.
Mayanaam
vequinox
Manolis 