Flies
Flies take charge of the wound
decay creeps into his nostrils
sorceress curses and in the corner
the blood-filled bucket
avenging bull wondered
what was accomplished with a death
the matador’s chest gored by right horn
deep aspirating gash where
breeze collapsed
his eloquent movements
fogged his poetic eyes
while the brassy band cheered victory:
of the bull
the matador
or the poet’s
composing this eulogy?
Poem by Tellos Agras
ON WORKING DAYS
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
where deserted hearts, encased in frost,
that on a Sunday numb with cold
and sad music stand and sing for us,
tiny faces shining timidly,
lips sealed by sadness,
lips never tasting a warm kiss
except the farewell kiss,
pale begging hands,
unworthy souls in supplication,
shadowed, blinded eyes
oh, saddened urgings of mortality!
You too enrobed your death,
unfortunate, poor, graceful rose,
instead of sparkling with rosy joy,
you seemed a saint in tribulation,
your stem bent, kneeling,
praying the daily Epitaphios.
Poor neighborhoods, abandoned corners
built for pitch black frost
built for the unburied souls,
the daily souls, lonely
for the remains and Sundays
of my soul, you, secret motherland
of my soul, frigid and resembling
a tray with cross and gold confection
and in its middle the holy candle
keeping vigil in the requiem of Love.
Manolis Aligizakis 