Scriber
Hours have turned pale and he’s found stooped
over the unthankful table.
The sun slides in through the open window
and plays onto the opposite wall
folding my chest I search for my breath
in the dust of my papers.
A thousand sounds life vibrates sweetly
in the freedom of the street
I’m exhausted, my eyes and mind are blurry
yet I still write.
I know of two sunlit lilies in a vase next to me
as if they’ve sprung up from a grave.
Manolis Aligizakis 