A DOG IN THE NIGHT
I don’t know the roots: the way they stir in the soil before
sprouting.
Perhaps, later on, they resemble the magnetic shadows of the branches
of an ancient garden
that stir invisibly in the moist soil, during the twilight, when
the first star
shivers in its ambivalence, polite and diaphanous as if asking for
everyone’s forgiveness.
I have often seen,
of course, exposed roots still green
and tender or totally dry — olive tree roots, cypress roots,
heath roots
and other roots of smaller plants — as if they coupled and
froze at a glance. Thus frozen, they aren’t concerned with your
glance anymore, your thought, your curiosity
nor for their ancient or current pain. Strange roots, hermetic,
serene, entwined
in a shape of agony, carelessness or neutral intensity like
those roots we once worked on and created table decors or
cute little statuettes, carefully and persistently taking advantage
of the various knots or veins of the wood or its random
branching
(we felt truly proud of these) or sometimes
we left them in their natural solid shape,
finished, frozen, indecipherable (called it, our shape)
an entwined scheme that resembled the glance of the one
observing it,
agreeing with their indisputable shape —
like a sleeping virgin or a stooped dog
or a ship hauled up from the sea floor — a dog better yet.
Manolis Aligizakis 