THE LIFT OPERATOR
The beds resembled some strange metal plants
rooted in the floor and lower, in the foundations
of the house, in the rocks and soil, even deeper,
in the center of the earth — strange plants, horrible
suckling plants: if you lie down, they suck your
blood out, your sleep and dream; they leave
behind only a diaphanous skin, a rind in the shape
of your body, yet emptiness remains in the rind
without your skeleton — a diaphanous shell that
is inflated by the breath of the following desire,
second and third time — how many times? Then
again emptiness, until, one night, the rind levitates,
takes the position of the ancient, hanged man or that
of the crystal chandelier, which in a flashlight all
its lights in the darkness, beyond exhaustion, regret,
forgiveness, emptiness, then, what was tiredness,
or failure? What is death when the chandelier shines
in the middle of the night, proving with all its
lights and with each one of them separately, the most
clear, the vaguest certainty, the most
indisputable and incomprehensible value?
Yet the beds remain empty and undone, and people
don’t have anywhere to lie down after work.
They hesitate to go out to the light again, to saunter
under the trees because light prefers washed shirts
and polished shoes, it prefers warm bread and kiss
and song and holiday. And these people
don’t have them.
Manolis Aligizakis 