Old Age
Old women come they fill the house they hold
umbrellas fans small or big black hats
purses with hand-mirrors handkerchiefs lipsticks compacts
they unravel big balls of string they shut the doors
most of them are deaf or dumb One of them shouts
and sock-needles pills and pins fall on the floor
he pounds fragrant cloves and chickpeas in the mortar
he deafens the old women he throws their keys in the well
and I am young Sunday morning with the strong winds
Manolis Aligizakis 