NIGHT OF A LONER
How bitter the furniture are in the room of a loner.
The table resembles an animal frozen in the cold;
the chair looks like a child lost in the snowed up forest;
the couch is a naked tree pushed over by the wind.
Yet, in a while, something is conducted in here:
a round, diaphanous silence like the glass
of the boatman and you, stooped over that glass,
you see the lucid sunlit sea floor with its crystal,
dark green schisms
with the exquisite sea verdure; you stare at
the rosy, apathetic, big fishes
with their wide, gentle movements and you don’t know
whether they look for something, they lurk, take
refuge or saunter aimlessly, since their eyes
are so wide open as if totally shut.
This however is irrelevant. Isn’t really enough
that their movements are both beautiful
and motionless?
Manolis 