Orestes (excerpt)
And I remember now the eyes of the cow — not that
it is so important — dark, blind, huge, round eyes, like
two little hills made of darkness or black glass; a bell
tower was imperceptibly reflected on them with crows
perched on the cross; and then someone yelled and
the crows flew away from the eyes of the cow. I believe
the cow was a symbol of an ancient religion. Keep
these ideas and abstractions away from me. She’s just
a common cow good for its milk, the plough, with all
its wisdom for work, endurance, and usefulness. Yet,
the last moment, before the animals returned to
the village, you remember? — she let an agonizing
moo to the edge of the horizon, so agonizing that
all birds, branches, goats, sparrows, horses and
farmers scattered away, leaving it behind, alone in
bare circle from which the spiral of constellations
rose high up into the space until the cow ascented too;
no, no, I think I discerned it in the darkness among
the herd, climbing the brushy path, silent, obedient
cow going to the village at the time when they lighted
the oil lamps in the courtyards, behind the trees.
Manolis Aligizakis 