Each morning they take a count of us;
each evening we count the leftover plates
the leftover grief in our eyes
as the rain casts the dice with the policemen
night falls and the whistles start echoing.
Now we want to put our hands in our armpits
to look whether a star gleams in the sky,
to remember that face
against the opening of the door
but we can’t remember
we have no time to remember
we don’t have time but to stand tall
and die.
My beloved
I perhaps feel cold when it rains
I perhaps caress the crumbs of memory
in my pockets
my palms that once held you are still hot
but I can’t return.
How can I deny the piece of hardened bread that twenty of us
shared?
How can I deny my mother who expects from me
a cup of sage tea?
How can I deny our child who we promised a wedge
of the sky?
How can I deny Nikolas
who was singing while they aimed to execute him?
When I return we won’t have a lamp to light, we won’t
know where to place our dream.
We shall remain silent.
Manolis Aligizakis 