Daily
When he gets up in the morning, and with a headache,
he doesn’t delay at all; he rushes, half dressed, to open
the window, to smell the cleaned dust of last night,
the aroma of the rotten grass, the rotten fruit behind
the fence wall. The street is still quiet. The flower sellers
pass with carnations or roses in their baskets. “Fake
convictions” he says, “it doesn’t matter” he adds. And
suddenly, the shadow of the city vanishes behind
the chimneys. All around, in the air, diaphanous, almost
triumphant, the buzz is heard from the keys of the stores,
the nails and hooks of the cheap daily business and
exchanges.
Manolis Aligizakis 