THE BRIDGE
And again, in the evening, she was possessed by
that gleaming truthfulness of her sadness like something
restful, something of her own, hers only — herself
totally submissive and closed, whole yet totally alone.
She then gathered the rest of the strings in a paper box,
took her weeding tool carefully
with that inevitable moderation and attention to order
and turned on the garden light knowing the consequences
which follow a change in lighting,
calm, retired, acceptable to herself. Soon after, she felt
an exceptional joy in her grief,
she felt that her grief was her attachment to what
had been, to what is, to what will be,
to everything around and above and below
to everything within and without, a silent attachment,
a touch of immortality, a distant and balanced eternal light
that annuls the difference, erases the distance
between here and the beyond, among foreign
languages, nor does it need any translation
from her smile to the star, from the star
to the garden light, from silence to confession,
from a carnation to the weeding tool and to her hand,
from one hour to the next. She then turned on the faucet
and with the garden hose she started watering the flowers,
the trees near and far under the familiar starlight and the
garden light.
Manolis Aligizakis 