Lighthouse Keeper
Other times, during the night, after I light the lamp,
I stand out on the balcony waiting for a ship not that
it was to see the lighthouse, or change its route, but
a ship that was coming here, to moor here, and not
to avoid a great danger; but with a clear destination
here; and to hear its anchor, as if a door was opening,
after being closed for a long time and into which I too
was locked; and I didn’t know how to discern the creak
of the door; I didn’t know what gesture my hands
might make, what expression my face might have.
I already imagined the masts of the ship in balance
with the lighthouse;
the passengers with their suitcases who jumped on
these rocks; their talk addressing me, equal to mine,
not any admiration or thankfulness at all, especially
not any gratitude, with their foreign accent, with that
foreign flair just to save ourselves; not that.
Manolis Aligizakis 