THE SICK MAN
They walk naked to the lighted, dark point of the world.
The statues, also naked, walk next to them, having found
their arms again, their legs, their heads and their usually
cut off genitals or their wings.
Perhaps they stand while darkness stirs towards them,
you can’t tell where the movement is headed, what
and towards where it stirs, however, the sense of
movement is irreversible, steady, and continuous euphoria,
a taste of the royal fruits of the immense Garden, taste
of eternity.
And I truly believe that darkness stirs towards them,
penetrates them, overwhelms them with that beautiful,
dark, cyan expectation, that deep acceptance and nobility
almost indifference, like the night that enters through
the open windows during the summer and erases
the mass of the furniture while it absorbs everything
and, unobstructed, it lights the whole house while
all the small, insignificant things sparkle with subdued
and meaningful glints like bones, and the utensils lose
their a certain stony usefulness and transform into tiny
metal veins amid the heavenly substratum, flexible
veins before they become items or after.
Manolis Aligizakis 