UNCLE KARAS AND HIS SON
Uncle Karas has been sick for a few days;
his moustache drooped, wilted.
A Thessaly sundown drizzles in his eyes,
a Brallos cloud crawls on his forehead.
His arms, crossed on his chest, resemble
two cut spruces in the morning mist.
Uncle Karas has a son made of flint stone.
His son has two black pigeons hidden in his
mended shirt
for this, sometimes his smile resembles a col
after the rain
while a broom of rays sweeps the fresh grass
and four buffalo and a colt with its light-blue
bead and bell graze in his eyes.
We hear this bell at dawn when uncle Karas’
son boils his father’s tea or when he takes
his father’s hand and guides him to the sunshine.
This son wraps his old father in his woollen blanket,
tidies his bed, like a young shepherd cares for his
old sheepdog
replenishes the water in the dog’s cup
gets off the ticks and thorns.
Uncle Karas is better now
since he hears that bell in his son’s eyes and
it’s because his son hears the bell of the evening star
behind the mountains
it’s because we are all uncle Karas’s sons, his son’s
brothers
it’s because we’re all comrades.
Every evening the shepherd’s bell rings in the tent
and the mountain bells echo under the tents
and uncle Karas sleeps in peace
and we’re all peaceful
only Karas’s son leans over his old father
and lights the lamp of doves over the rocks of our sleep.
Uncle Karas, don’t be afraid of anything as long as
this lamp keeps burning.
Manolis 