NATURAL, MAYBE
I can no longer distinguish your voice,
I don’t even remember your long hair
that hour was unfortunate, perhaps
natural in unfulfillment.
The evening doesn’t bring us together anymore,
bitter Wednesday is in the deep,
Monday brings you, I come on Friday,
Thursday’s bridges collapsed.
Blue is heavy, snowfall is long,
under the brush of the icon painter –
angels come to chase me away
into the clay of the pot wheel.
Manolis Aligizakis 