…she could stir
her shaking hands imperceptibly
trying in her foggy mind
to recall images of her past greatness
to the day
that with slow steps
she moved,
they moved her,
to the old folk’s home
three children were born
inside this room,
descendants of an honourable family
that vanished
no none of them ever lived,
one of them emigrated to America
the other had a horrible death, a drunkard,
and the third one
is still somewhere
as a lighthouse keeper
here, yes, inside this room
an immoral hand murdered
that brave man
to punish anarchy personally,
he said,
and the poplar leaned and died
and that foggy stain
on the floor
there by the corner
is the blood that was shed,
like a river, from the wound…
Manolis Aligizakis 