2.
Grant me, my Lord, a ripped page in every book and
this way I walked bravely like the corner of a house
at dawn or a woman who, with her breasts, pushes
sleep aside or the hands of the blind man conniving
with the fog.
I could, truly, narrate a lot of stories but I’m thinking
to what end since even the most innocent word is
unfortunately a goodbye repeated a thousand times
just before the accident
and the server spat in the coffee so he could double
his wages;
sleep with ravaged musical notes a mix up of dead
keys
children’s letters to God thrown carelessly onto the
ground
and the drunk man walks awkwardly not to step
on them.
In the evening we gathered around the passing rhetor;
the light breeze stirred the fringes of his coat and
ah, perhaps, the secret was hidden in those few words;
the truly five cents romance
while fame was always passing from the other road.
My story was simple, I was born about twelve thousand
years ago
embarrassed as well, while my tea was getting cold on
the other side of earth;
and he always searched persistently in the dark room
“you’ll find it”, I said to him “but what will you do
after that?”
Manolis 