Wooden Soldiers
Wooden soldiers of the enemy
stood motionless by our borders
rifles unpolished and
bayonets dull
full moon split the land
in light and shadow lots
and we stayed on guard
kept aiming at them
what one could do with bullets
but count fallen rose petals
and missed kisses
what one could do with bayonets
but take a picture of the monarch
as it defined the perimeter of our dreams
and the center of our love?
VIII
What time before dawn
when in dream I reach the precipice
and I fall, fall
without my body?
All deaths are staged here
by people
the breath of leaves is heard
new birds replace yesterday’s
just to sing with
one flutter, one soul.
Where am I at that moment
the only important moment
that underlines the great adventure
where am I when
they take away from me
one spring every night
and I don’t touch the womb
that gives birth
the butterfly that turns dry?
Ages!
All ages are poor
and the age of eighteen
is dimply lit by the other miracle
it tastes darkness a little
and they don’t count
the value of the body
the infinite nature of the body.
And innocence, like blindness
and the old fool saints
fly a kite up in the air.
That hour which poets
match to a wolf
that hour, known only to the body
that writhes, growls
the sky of sleep turns dark
I and you too die
a thousand times
before dawn.
HANDS OF THE COMRADES
Our hands remained empty;
they have rubbed on the unshaven chin
of the wind a thousand times
they have grasped the barbwire a thousand times
they have touched the frozen railings of death
a thousand times.
Our hands grew knots from using the spade, from
pounding the rocks, from battle and
more so from handshaking;
they now grasp things with certainty.
The wind of the house and mother’s shadow
were two soft gloves, two woollen gloves
that warmed our hands, didn’t let us
grab flesh to flesh the hands of others.
Now the gloves ripped, we use them
to make gauzes to cover the wounds
of our comrades
we use them to wash and clean our plates,
utensils and mess cauldrons.
Our hands remained empty;
got used to work, silence, aiming;
they held the cock of anger up and down many
a time
they cut and cut again the bread of patience with
a pocket knife
they hit face on the wall and the night.
Now our hands, totally empty, rest on our knees
like the sun over the mountain
like the mountain over the sea
like the comrade’s heart over its resolve.
These are the hands of the communists.
When they squeeze your hand you know that all
the world capitals are lighted behind the night
when they carry buckets of sea water up the hill
you know that tomorrow the sun and the sea are theirs
you know that the heavy sack with the stones feels
light in their hands
because, always, Freedom carries half of the weight.
These are the hands of the comrades.
Empty hands, exposed veins of naked hands
like the railroad rails on the world map.
Empty hands, the line of night was erased in
their fists.
They hold the fate of the world in their fists.
These are the hands of the comrades.
Μπορεί η σύγχρονη τεχνολογία να βοηθήσει στην αποκρυπτογράφηση της Γραμμικής Α, της μινωικής γραφής που κρατά ακόμα καλά τα μυστικά της;
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Manolis 