Humbleness

II

Grief is welcomed from your hands, she wrote to him;

I kiss your empty cigarette packages stored in the good

side of the chest. I have kept a curly hair from your

underarm, my son, my master, and I place all my hardships

there and I relax, my boy and if it isn’t much to ask, please

send me a bag of sugar so I can bake the cookies you like

come Easter time.  

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ON AN ITALIAN SHORE

Kimos, son of Menedoros,    a Greek—Italian youth,

spends his life    having a good time;

as is customary    for such young men

from Greater Greece   who are raised in riches.

But today he is   despite his nature

quite gloomy and disheartened.   Near the shoreline,

in utmost melancholy,   he sees the ships

unloading their spoils   from the Peloponnese.

Loot from Greece;    spoils from Corinth.

Ah, today, of course   it is not expected,

it is not possible    for this Greek—Italian youth

to desire    any amusement at all.

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Return of the Émigré

—My old friend, what are you looking for?

after years in foreign lands you’ve come back

with images you’ve nourished

under foreign skies

away from your country.

—I’m looking for my old garden

the trees reach to my waist

and the hills resemble terraces

yet when I was a child

I played on the grass

under the great shadows

and I ran for hours breathless over the slopes.

—My old friend, rest

little by little you’ll get used to it;

together we shall climb

on your well known paths

we shall rest together

under the dome of plane trees

little by little they’ll come to you

your orchard and your slopes.

—I’m looking for my old house

with the tall windows

darkened by the ivy

I’m looking for the ancient column

looked up by the seaman.

How can I walk into this sheepfold?

Roofs reach to my shoulders

and everywhere I look

I see kneeling people

as though praying.

—My old friend, don’t you hear me?

Little by little you will get used to it

your house is the one you see and

this door your friends will come and knock to

welcome you back tenderly.

—Why is your voice so distant?

Raise your head a bit that

I may understand you as you speak you gradually

grow smaller as though

you sink into the ground.

—My old friend, think a while

little by little you’ll get used to it

your nostalgia has created an nonexistent country, with laws

beyond the earth and people.

—I can not hear anything anymore

my last friend has sunk

strange how often enough everything around here sinks

here thousands of scythe chariots

run and mow everything down.

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