So much we gazed at the sea, the people and
in our hearts
that our mouths got filled with silence and our eyes
even if nothing seemed certain for us
children will certainly have orchards and toys
in their pockets, all that we never played,
women will certainly have
the shade of a small lilac
in every step they take
during the spring mornings
old men will certainly have a staff
which will bloom in the corner of the house.
For this we could still sleep
although fear coiled itself in our boots.
The moon, in the opening of the tent,
resembled a yellow censored pamphlet
yet we could read
even what was erased
what was never written
what no one can utter
as we read a green leaf in the spring
as we read Fitso’s apology in the eyes of the man
next to us and Alice Tsoukala’s few words,
as, in our bitterness, read the Moscow red square
with the parades of representatives from all the democracies
of the world. For this we sleep in peace, leaning on the side of our heart
a window was opened behind our sorrow
a little branch outside our window
and our oath.
We notice our growing beards, nails, and hope.
Sleep, my comrade
I’m near you
here is my hand.
The sun is near us.