Toward Dawn
Late at night that the traffic slows down
and the traffic wardens leave their posts he
doesn’t know what to do anymore from his window
he looks down at the big glass of the cafe front steamed up
by the breathing of sleeplessness he looks at the
spectral refracted waiters changing clothes behind the cash
he looks at the sky with its wide white holes
discerning in them the wheels of the last bus And then
that: “nothing else nothing else” He enters
the totally empty room He leans his forehead
on the shoulder of a statue resembling him (unnaturally taller)
feeling the freshness of morning on the marble while
down in the courtyard with the broken flagstones the guards
gather and cut strings off packages of the exiled people
Manolis 