Persephone (excerpt)
You hear the horses in the stable and the water that
drips when the pilgrims raise two clay vessels one
to the east and one to the west, pouring out water
and honey or water and barley mixed with wild mint
over the plot with the laurels while they murmur vague
words and spells. And my mother’s voice saying,
golden wheat-ear harvested in silence. Night isn’t
resting us anymore, an endless suspecting hallway
with huge statues, embroidered curtains, masks, stones,
optical illusions, metal items, crystals, doors, one leading
to darkness one to the light, that same stairway with one
golden step and the other black.
Break it down, I said to him
and the three women always there, turned to their backs,
with covered faces, stooping over the empty well, yelling
indecipherable words, and the echo of their unrecognizable
words was multiplied by the well. I can’t endure it here
anymore.
Manolis Aligizakis 