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.
Manolis 