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.
Manolis 