Requiem
Th
e explosion
back then, vivid image forever
stilled on his retina
bodies scattered in the scrapes
pieces of sky tumbling
fogged flash of light
eyes flooded my moment’s end
darkness awaited
to capture absolution
his arm raised the knife
that came down fiercely
violating flesh
fogged darkness flooding
in and out of his psyche
once twice thrice
thesis antithesis synthesis
now a tear flows down silently
slowly repeating the end concept
darkness, darkness, darkness
excerpt
“Yes, he spent so many years earning blood money, Bevan. I know; you’re
right. The agency is the first and foremost concern for all of you. The agency, no
matter what the result, no matter what the human cost,” Emily says, angrily.
Bevan knows this feeling of helplessness, this feeling of betrayal, and this
feeling of loss, particularly when the loss is for something you don’t agree with.
He knows all this because he feels that way most of the time himself.
“Yet, there is a reason why everything happens as it happens, my dear Emily,”
he says, as a way of inserting a sense of justice into something gone wrong.
“Also, don’t forget the police lieutenant mentioned that you told him, as you
told me, that Matthew was cleaning his service pistol that morning. After you
left, the accident took place.”
“Yes, Bevan, the accident took place while I was out with Cathy,” she repeats
monotonously.
The devastation is impossible to describe and the words are so humble and poor, trying
to explain to the flawless mind the inconceivable, the disappearance of logic, and
the return of mass mania for the slavery of feelings in the thirst for blood. The blood is
someone’s, anyone’s, as long as blood is shed and it paints the roads and the cobblestone
streets of this desolate place in red, this place that belongs to people who know
well the hunger and thirst for life.
The houses are mostly demolished; one cannot tell the wall of one from the yard
of the other—the doors, windows, gates, all destroyed. The roofs have collapsed and
walls lean on other walls as injured people try to hang onto one another in order to
stand. They resemble people trying to stay on their feet as others struggle to walk
uphill on crutches.
People shyly and full of fear come out of one hole or another, one by one, like
rodents in the fields popping their heads out to see the devastated condition of the
land and the devastated condition of the human race whose advanced technology
has enabled them to create so much destruction. People come out of their holes to
witness whether death has surpassed them, whether he went to the neighbor’s
house or took some unknown person; after all, Hades is here to take. They come out
of their holes to see whether Hades is still around in the form of a bullet from the
rifle of the soldier from the foreign land. The older ones have seen this before and
know well the pain and anger, but the children, for the first time, taste the loss of a
mother or a father who has died under the cement of their collapsed house, or the
loss of a brother or a dear friend killed by the non-discriminating bombs that fall
from the arms of the sky. The children run out into the desolate backyards and
behind the armored cars of the soldiers. They try to steal something of value…
Unfamiliar Place
Peter emigrated to the Orient, and Alex to the West.
We haven’t heard how they have been doing. We stayed
here at this crossroads. We took care of the place,
put up signs and wrote names. Then the wind blew
down the signs. Men pass with carriages loaded with
apples, grapes, or oranges. They ask: “Is this the way
to Sparta? Is this the way to Argos?” We shake our heads
as if saying “yes” so we won’t point out that we’ve forgotten
over the years, we blow our smoke through our nostrils
as if we burn inside, what fire and what knowledge?
Yet we survive we even manage to get by; sometimes
we even smile or clean our front teeth with our nails,
and we look as if we know something we never knew.
And perhaps what we didn’t disclose keeps us still
waiting for the hour of disclosure.
Manolis Aligizakis 